


Words in Sacred Tongues

by eloquated



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), A stroll through history, Angst and Feels, Armageddon, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Enochian language, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gender is fluid when you're an angel (or a demon!), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Witch Trials, but doesn't have to be, can be read as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-08-19 06:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Before the apple, or the gift of a flaming sword, Crowley and Aziraphale's story began with a secret.And a word.  But neither of them knew it at the time.Or,The story of two supernatural entities taking the very long, circuitous road to love.





	1. Aoiveae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/gifts).
  * Translation into Italiano available: [Words in Sacred Tongues](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483818) by [DevilLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilLight/pseuds/DevilLight)
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we start at the beginning of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I know it's been a hot minute, but I'm back now, and with more Good Omens-y loveliness! 
> 
> This is dedicated to the absolutely wonderful and amazing [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx). Thank you so much for all the incredible work and love you put into all your recordings, they make the fandom a brighter place. 💕

**Aoiveae; Star. **  
_ Eden. _

Contrary to popular belief, God did not start the world with light. The sun, in fact, was rather a new invention.

The story of the creation was a human misconception, passed down from Adam, and Lilith, and Eve. The first humans who woke into being with bright, warm sunlight on their faces, and assumed it had always been that way.

It was an understandable mistake, Aziraphale supposed. Without sunlight, plants would wither and life would die. So of course God, in her wisdom, must have crafted that first. After all, God was infallible, and not prone to unfortunate oversights. 

From the top of his high wall, Aziraphale looked down at the lush greens and brilliant colours of Eden, and remembered that it had not always been that way. 

The first Eden had been beautiful, too-- but the flowers had been white, their bleached petals reaching up for something that had not been created yet. 

They’d withered on their vines, and Aziraphale could only imagine Raphael’s grief when his delicate creations had succumbed to the darkness. They’d all turned grey, and everything had perished eventually.

The first Eden was widely considered a trial run, and God was determined to get it right the second time.

Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t been on Earth at the time. He was a Principality, pledged from creation to serve and aid Gabriel, and the armies of Heaven. So while Raphael and many of the others planted and grew, Aziraphale had been armed with a flaming sword, and marched into the long lines of the regiment.

Breastplate of righteousness, sword of something holy. Loins girt with truth, and all that shield of faith to smite the wicked business. Privately, Aziraphale wasn’t quite certain how anyone was supposed to smite with a shield in the first place-- weren’t they rather to avoid being smited?

Either way, they had been created for one purpose-- to defend Heaven from the _ other _ . Aziraphale didn’t know what this _ Other _was, or why it was a threat. But he’d been created to oppose it.

And surely God knew best?

Well, if that was the case, he thought from his perch on the wall, God must be terribly disappointed with him.

What sort of a warrior hid their flaming sword beneath a pile of loose stones, muting the bright, flickering light so he could look up at the night sky without distraction? Not a proper one! Or so Gabriel had reminded him, time and time again. They had a purpose, a unity, and Aziraphale should be _ grateful _ to have been placed in defense of this part of the wall.

And he was!

But Aziraphale suspected he was grateful for the wrong reasons.

He loved the view. Up here on the wall, he could breathe in the sweet air, and hear the living hum of all the new animals around him. There were bees and hummingbirds, and great cats that sprawled in the sunshine with glossy coats. The angel loved being able to lay on the cool stones after the heat of the day, and gaze out over Creation.

From the top of his wall, it felt like he could see everything. Including the nasty bit of a domestic that had convinced God to… Well. Aziraphale had bitten his tongue about _ that _. It took two people to fight, and it seemed that Adam had been just as much in the wrong.

Not that he would say it aloud, of course! 

One didn’t anger the Almighty without good reason. And Aziraphale’s definition of ‘good reason’ was still half formed. Vague ideas of right and wrong, and it was all very confusing.

The whole Lilith business hadn’t sat very well with him, but it would take another few millennia for him to finally understand why.

More than anything, Aziraphale’s favourite thing to do was watch the tiny pinpricks of the first stars as they kindled fire where there had been only darkness before.

Aziraphale wondered about the angels that laboured there, creating the long ribbons of galaxies that curled in on themselves, spiraling and streaking through the night sky. Or the constellations that seemed just on the verge of telling a story. Sometimes, when he looked very carefully, he could see the colours that darted through the darkness, and felt a terrible ache in his chest.

God, in her wisdom, had not created Aziraphale to create. 

_ If only… _

If only he could light stars and galaxies, or craft the velvet soft petals of flowers, Aziraphale wondered if he could bring that bright beauty into himself. That, perhaps, he could illuminate the dark hollows that had been left vacant in his being. 

None of the others seemed to suffer the same doubts. They were fulfilled with their work, and joyous in their purpose.

But Aziraphale…

There was clearly something terribly wrong with him. 

With his arms spread across the stone wall, Aziraphale gazed upwards, the ache of longing spilling out through his chest. The lights didn’t have names yet-- they were like him, incomplete. And he wondered if each silver bright spot was lonely in their orbit, or if their creators had made them whole and perfect.

Well, he might not be like Raphael and the others, but surely he could find something to call those lights! 

Something just in the privacy of his own mind, of course, because he was not an angel made to create-- and words were a special sort of craft. But a name, until someone else chose them a proper one.

“And you shall be… Be…”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, and half sat up from the stones. The weight of his soft, white wings drooped against the wall, and for a long moment, he wondered if he would fail in this, too. 

Gabriel would tell him to stop over reaching his position.

He should be content. Grateful. Settled in the place God had crafted him to fill. Imagination was for the other Choirs, not for him.

With a hot burst of defiance, Aziraphale pushed himself up to his feet, and tilted his blonde head back. Gabriel was an Archangel, but he was not_ God _. He had not crafted Aziraphale with his hands, only guided him into line! 

And surely it couldn’t hurt anything to have a private little something of his own.

“Aoi…. _ Aoiveae. _ You are _ aoiveae.” _He addressed the lights, and hoped they liked the sound.

The word kindled in the darkness, a bright spark that caught hold. A word, a new word. A word in the language of angels that would not be taught to mortal man.

The new word reached the ears of God, and She breathed life into it. 

It spread out through the Heavenly Host, a communal understanding that these things had been Named. Names were important, they made things permanent. If you had a name, you existed-- with a name, you were real.

“Oh dear, oh goodness…” Aziraphale fretted nervously to himself, “Oh, Gabriel won’t like this, not one little bit!” He crossed his fingers behind his back, and hoped that the archangel wouldn’t be able to trace the origin of the word back to him. He hadn’t meant any trouble with it! And he certainly hadn’t thought it would take!

Surely there were smarter angels, angels _ made _for that sort of naming business. But Aziraphale loved words, and he couldn’t help but roll the new sounds across his tongue for the sheer sound-joy of it.

And really! If God had chosen the word he’d created, surely that meant She approved? 

Or had he simply stolen someone else’s right to name the stars? It was all so very confusing! Craning his neck, Aziraphale looked up at his newly named _ aoiveae _, and wished they could offer a little reassurance. 

But they just twinkled merrily in their bright orbit, as stars were wont to do. 

And amidst those same stars, an angel looked up from his work. For a moment, the weight of his doubts and questions was eased. 

Someone had named his creation. Someone had looked at his long work, and thought it worthy of a Word.

Someone had gazed up at his stars and loved them as he did.

Brimming with joy, the stars the angel lit that night were the clearest and brightest he would ever make. _ Thank you, thank you, thank you, whoever did this. Thank you for my beautiful word! I don’t know who you are, but these stars are for you. _

From his wall below, Aziraphale watched them spark into being, delighted.

And when Crowley Fell, it was the last word of his native tongue to turn to ash on his lips. 

_ Perhaps that angel is looking up at my stars, and loving them still, _he thought as the world burned.

And he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, the chapter headings are from the Enochian language. 
> 
> 1\. Enochian is an occult or angelic language recorded in the private journals of John Dee and his colleague Edward Kelley in late 16th-century England.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enochian


	2. Laiad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many questions, but few answers.

**Laiad; Secrets. **   
_Golgotha, 33AD._

“Be kind to each other… _ Be kind to each other.” _ Crowley repeated incredulously under his breath for what felt like the millionth time since that afternoon. People were hungry, their rulers were corrupt, and he’d come to them with a message like _ be kind to each other? _

Honestly, son of God or not, he should have known better. People were hungry, their rulers were corrupt. Crowley stopped, and squinted into his wine cup-- he was fairly sure that thought had already crossed his mind. Well, it didn’t make it any less true! “People are… Are _ starving_, and their rulers are bastards.” He muttered against the clay, just for good measure. 

They lived in fear of a God that was supposed to love them. The same God that had sent plagues, and slaughtered first born children.

“Not to mention the sodding _ bears _ she sent to maul all those kids.” Crowley shuddered, and gripped the edge of his cup, the uneven clay biting into his fingers. And still they worshipped Her, and spoke of her kindness and loving!

The same God that had…

And he hadn’t wanted… Hadn’t _ meant to_… 

Crowley put a stop to that particular thought with a hard swallow of bitter wine, the roughness of it scouring the inside of his throat. _ No_. 

It was hard to trust any God that condoned that sort of thing. And Crowley certainly hadn’t forgotten standing on the plains beneath the gathering clouds, surrounded by people that the Almighty had earmarked for drowning.

A rainbow might be a hopeful sign now, but he doubted it had much meaning for the dearly departed.

“Even my lot don’t go in for the indiscriminate slaughter of whole civilizations. You’d think the _ good side _ would have a little more restraint.” He cursed against the rim of his glass. Crowley wasn’t sure he could stomach enough of the sour brew to get properly drunk, but he was determined to give it his very best shot.

Enough wine could anesthetize anything, that was his motto. And it had worked well enough for him so far.

But the image of the young man he’d known, eyes wide and filled with so much damn _ hope_, kept swimming in behind his eyelids. Jesus of Nazareth, son of God, sent into the world ostensibly to spread his message of peace, love and faith.

The kid who’d stood on top of that mountain and told Crowley that he’d _ known_. He’d been born to further some damn agenda, and he was going to die for it. Was willing to die for some Almighty deadbeat parent that had buggered off before he was even born! 

It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair! 

He’d asked Jesus to reconsider-- embarrassing, that. He was a demon, supposed to just get the work done and move on. _ You could see it, I could show you. Just stop this before it gets you killed. _ And Jesus had rested a hand on his shoulder, burning through his robe, and apologized. 

“Said he couldn’t. That wasn’t his purpose. Like he had any idea!”

_ Fucking merciful God. She had to know what they would do to the kid. _

Even Crowley wasn’t brave enough to speak those words aloud, but they bubbled like vinegar in the churning pit of his stomach. “And if I did say’em, what would She do? Throw me out? And what about everyone _ else?_”

There had been other men crucified that day, and the day before. 

And there would be more tomorrow, because that was what people did now. This was what passed for their justice.

The wine must have been working better than Crowley had expected, and he hardly noticed when the man beside him at the counter looked up from the scroll he’d been studying. Tiny black letters marched along the page, and Crowley had never been much for reading; too many characters that refused to play nice with his slit pupiled eyes. They wriggled on the page, all restless and agitated ink that threatened to give him a splitting headache.

Another gift of the Almighty. 

Well, snakes were never supposed to be sodding scholars.

“Did you say something?” The man asked after a leading moment. Crowley could feel the appraising look that swept over his body, the way it lingered on the heavy folds of his black robe, and the long coils of red hair that he’d impatiently shoved over his shoulder earlier that day. 

Even drunk-- well, he wasn’t quite there yet, but he’d started down the slippery slope-- Crowley could read the interest in the man’s eyes. Covetous, lustful, it was hardly even worth his effort to ply him with a little temptation. The man was well on his way already.

“In a few years, we shall have him.” He added sardonically into his wine, mostly for his own wretched amusement. The man didn’t seem to hear, which was probably for the best. He was much too occupied with trying to catch a glimpse of the woman behind the hood of Crowley’s dark shawl.

Crowley would never know quite what compelled him to talk to the human. After all, he could have gone to find Aziraphale, who was probably almost done the assignment he’d been sent out for. And even if the angel... _ His _ angel… Friend… _ Yes, friend_… Only friend, different from all the others. His angel was kind. Kind, like an angel was supposed to be...

End even if Aziraphale couldn’t explain what the Hell God was doing, at least they could be miserable and uncertain together.

Only Aziraphale was off trying to soothe the grieving, loyal acolytes of the Saviour that had been crucified earlier that afternoon. Jesus, who was-- Crowley couldn’t push the thought away in time-- probably still alive, and having a much worse day than Crowley.

“Bloody awful way to die…”

“Ah, you were at that nasty business this afternoon?” The man interjected, and turned towards Crowley on his stool.

Right. There was still a human waiting for him to reply. He’d forgotten.

Trying to avoid the hot bile pushing up the back of his throat, Crowley nodded reluctantly, “It was…” His voice croaked, and he tried to wash the frog away with an indelicate gulp of horrible wine.

“It was fair. They’re criminals, madam, a drain on society. They offer nothing but dissent and trouble for good, God-fearing people. I’m sure it seems unpleasant for your... Delicate sensibilities, but it’s for the best. We have laws for a reason.”

Crowley wanted to throw something at him. But there was nothing close at hand, save for his own clay mug, and he didn’t want to waste the wine, even if it did taste like vinegar and piss. 

Bloody _ delicate sensibilities_, arrogant human.

“What if there was a mistake?” He asked, sliding the question in before the silence could start dragging again. _ Satan_, what was in this wine? “Humans… People… Aren’t known for their perfect judgement.”

“That’s why we have tribunals, and judges. Every man executed today has been given a fair trial, and declared guilty. The world doesn’t need more people like that. They’re violent, thieving malcontents.”

_ And I don’t know any of them personally, _Crowley filled in the blanks for himself, and swallowed a little harder to force back the bile. The man was well dressed, one hand flashing with a large, lemon coloured citrine. He was reading-- most of the time, that meant educated. His life was so far removed from the rows of crosses that he’d forgotten they were people on them.

Real, flesh and blood people. Cast out and hurting… _ hurting. Satan, God, fucking _ ** _Someone_ ** _ , why aren’t you helping them? _

Because they’d been in the wrong place, or said the wrong thing. Because they’d been poor or starving, or fallen in love with the wrong person.

For asking the wrong questions.

“Be kind to each other. What’s wrong with that?” Crowley’s rejoinder was dagger sharp, cutting across his tongue and threatening to draw blood. As if he didn’t already know. “That man--” That man had died for them, and this bastard didn’t care.

He was human, and so he could question and doubt, and repent at the very last second of his life-- and be spared. The rules were different for mortals, and it was bitterly unfair.

“Sometimes we have to make examples of people. It’s for the betterment of everyone. We have justice and law--”

“Those aren’t the same thing!” 

“Of course they are.” With careful fingers, the man began to close his scroll, wrapping the high quality parchment around and around the wooden dowels that protected it. “If they were innocent, they would have gone free. Clearly, they weren’t. You shouldn’t worry yourself about these things, madam. They’re for great men to decide, and the rest of us to obey. Have faith.”

_ Have faith_. Crowley wasn’t certain if he wanted to laugh, or cry, but the suffocating emotion was curdling in his throat. He’d had faith, once. He’d been _ good _, and knelt at the feet of God in adoration.

He’d hung the bloody stars, and planted the flowers, and loved… _ loved… _Loved the same God that had abandoned him. That had cast him out, and despised him.

Crowley had spent his centuries doubting everything, because God could not be wrong. One answer, one sign that she’d understood his fears-- that’s all it would have taken!

_ Don’t ask too many questions_, Crowley’s internal monologue supplied. After all, shouldn’t he know better? Shouldn’t he, of all cursed things, know the danger of asking questions?

He hadn’t wanted to cause trouble. But he had wondered, and allowed the doubt in. 

Humans had free will to ask, and to love, and why had the Heavenly Host been denied these things? Why was their existence to be lived in service while the humans could learn, and experiment, and create?

Crowley hadn’t courted Damnation, but it had found him anyway. 

And it wasn’t as though he could just forget-- he’d tried! But once the questions were there, rattling around the inside of his skull, they’d refused to shift.

“Madam?” 

Crowley ignored the man this time. 

He’d seen it in Aziraphale’s eyes that afternoon, the questions. The little doubts that were putting down roots in his sweet soul, because he’d wondered-- _ how could our God do this? _ How could any being of love condemn their own child?

The were the same shadows of questions Crowley had seen in his eyes as they watched Noah and his sons marching animals into the ark, two by two. When his angel... _ The angel_… had looked around the crowd of people, and known they would all be gone, soon.

Crowley’s fingers tightened around the clay mug in his hands, rough and poorly glazed, and stained with the dregs of a thousand different, and equally terrible, wines. Aziraphale had _ questions_, and it was only a matter of time before he asked them.

What else was an angel to do? He couldn’t swallow the questions forever.

A few coins clattered on the table as Crowley dragged himself to his feet, and fixed the drape of his shawl with impatient hands. Who else would, could, Aziraphale ask? 

Michael?

Gabriel?

They’d tell him to stiffen his spine, and hold onto his faith. All things for a _ fucking _ reason. Don’t question too much.

Let your faith be your anchor.

“And we know what anchors are good for. Tying to people’s feet before throwing them overboard.” The world spun sickly on its’ axis, and Crowley gripped the sticky edge of the bar for balance. 

No, Aziraphale wouldn’t ask them. 

He’d ask Crowley.

How did he Fall?

Why?

Why?

_ Why? _

Crowley was entirely sure he was going to be sick.

Aziraphale would ask, and how could he answer? When those same questions-- he knew those questions, had _ asked _ those questions. And look what had happened.

God had replied with agony and exile.

Crowley had been left with his questions, and none of the answers he so desperately needed. He didn’t know if it was the wondering, or the asking, that had condemned him. He didn’t know!

Answering Aziraphale’s questions…

Crowley knew he’d have to answer if Aziraphale asked. He didn’t think he was strong enough to say no. 

No. He knew he wasn’t. Not when Aziraphale would look up at him with that look of confusion, and _ please, help me understand. _

“No. I won’t. I absolutely bloody will not. Can’t... No, can’t do that to him.” Liquor soaked and bitter, Crowley turned his feet towards the door of the wine shop. These human could ask all the questions they wanted, and never have to fear reprisal.

But his angel... Aziraphale, who was still holding his holy faith in both hands, squeezing it for every drop of comfort. Who always sucked the smudges of honey from his fingers, and smiled up at Crowley with that damn.. Bloody… _ Joy_, whenever they ran into each other. Like he was happy to see Crowley.

People weren’t supposed to be _ happy _ about that. He was a demon! 

Aziraphale, who had stood on that wall at the beginning of the world, and spoken to Crowley like he mattered.

Best he leave town. 

Now. Tonight. 

Aziraphale would probably chalk it up to work when he didn’t see him later. A little last minute corruption. Crowley didn’t care what he thought, so long as he wasn’t here to face the questions the angel might need to ask.

Crowley knew he could never be good, not again. He was damned, and beyond saving. The Fallen had no place in the light and salvation of Heaven, carrying only the memory of what they had once been. 

Whole. Loved.

But he could leave. It was the only way to keep his angel safe. 

And maybe when they met again, Aziraphale would have found his own answers. Uncomplicated ones. One that didn’t risk his soul. 

The sort of answers that Crowley could not give him.

“_ Be kind to each other_… Ave atque vale, Jesus of Nazareth. Hail and farewell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and keep any interesting factoids and references down here in the footnotes, if people are curious about them. Or swing into the comments and come chat Good Omens! 💕
> 
> 1\. The story of the Plagues, and the death of the first born children, are from the story of the Exodus.  
They are ten calamities inflicted on Egypt by Yahweh, the God of Israel, in order to force Pharaoh to allow the Israelites to depart from slavery.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plagues_of_Egypt
> 
> 2\. The bears are from 2 Kings 2:24, "He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the boys."  
https://biblehub.com/2_kings/2-24.htm
> 
> 3\. 'Ave atque vale' means hail and farewell : I salute you, and goodbye —used especially in a eulogy to a hero.  
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ave%20atque%20vale


	3. Ciaofi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world burns, and Crowley remembers what it is to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm almost finished the first draft for this whole fic, and I'm working on the second, so hopefully updates will be coming a little more quickly soon! 💕

**Ciaofi; Terror.**   
_ Pompeii, Rome, 79AD. _

Pompeii was built on a volcano.

It wasn’t that Crowley had forgotten this fact-- it was very difficult to forget the towering mountain that loomed over the city, occasionally offering up puffs of sulfurous smoke and ash that reminded the demon far too much of the foul pits of Hell he’d once called ‘home’.

Well, actually Crowley hadn’t called them home in a very long time, millennia in fact. But it was still an accepted fact that it had been. Once. And he was still a demon. 

Either way, it was less of a forgetting, and more of a… Selective ignoring. 

The people in the city below were enjoying the fruits of their rebuilding, flush with pride at having refused to be shifted from the fertile side of their mountain. The Gods had tried to shake their city down around them, sending earthquakes and rain, but they had prevailed. They’d rebuilt their houses from the rubble of the ones before. They’d made them taller, and stronger, and should the Gods send another earthquake?

They would start again then, too.

Crowley had been enjoying the high of their success, and the people of Pompeii had been only too happy to welcome him (and his many temptations) with open arms. The Gods of this time were fabulously hedonistic, and Crowley felt very at home amongst the vineyards that sloped down the side of Vesuvius, and the bathhouses that dotted the city.

Aziraphale, he thought, would have loved the wine they made here, and Crowley wondered if he aught to pick up a bottle while he was in the city. 

Or a few bottles. The grapes grown on Vesuvius were some of the best in the known world. 

What was a little ash compared to all that human ingenuity? Crowley was between assignments, and after that debacle in Rome a decade before (Year of the Four Emperors, his arse. But that’s what happened when a few of his lot decided to try their hand at politics, and the archangels had felt obliged to intervene,) he rather felt he’d deserved a bit of a vacation.

And the Bay of Neapolis was lovely at this time of year. The late August heat was just about stifling for the humans, but for a snake, it was perfect.

Unfortunately for his time off, the volcano seemed to have other ideas.

With his hair still damp, and skin smooth from the bath, Crowley ducked out into the busy city street just in time to see the great plume of greasy smoke belching from the top of the volcano. He’d never been particularly superstitious, he much preferred science,, but it did seem like an awful lot of smoke. 

And Vesuvius was, even if it had been quiet for some time, a volcano.

A very large, and apparently unhappy volcano.

Something was decidedly wrong, and perhaps, Crowley considered with no small amount of annoyance, it was time for him to pick up sticks and find somewhere a little less smoky to live. One didn’t have to be superstitious to know that great, black clouds weren’t ideal to live under.

As if in agreement (or maybe annoyance, it was hard to tell with large, fiery mountains) the ground rumbled ominously. The humans barely seemed to look up from their work; sellers at their stalls paused for only a moment, the snappy patter of their hawking trailing off. And then, just as quickly as they’d stopped, they began again.

_ Dates for sale! _

_ Fabulous wine from Campania! _

_ Look at this cloth, have you ever seen a finer weave? _

_ Come buy, come buy! _

After all, it wasn’t their first quake. It wasn’t even the first that morning. The people of Pompeii had made their peace with the occasional rumble from the mountain, and prided themselves on their bravery. This was their home, and they would not be made to leave.

Crowley, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. It was due time, the demon decided, to gather his things and leave. After all, he could always come back after the volcano had calmed down.

By mid afternoon, the sky was dark, and even the stalwart people of Pompeii were beginning to worry. 

From the fine cobbled streets, Crowley watched with sickening horror at the vast cloud of black smoke issuing from the volcano. With small clatter, a stone dropped to his feet, reeking with the burnt scent of sulfur and fire. Crowley knelt down to pick it up, and the heated rock scorched his fingers, still burning and hot to the touch.

“Oh bugger…” He exhaled under his breath, just as another stone struck the shingled roof of the building opposite. Several of the slats cracked, and slid to the ground in a crumble of shattered red clay. 

Traditionally speaking, a rain of stones was a Very Bad Sign.

In fact, rains of anything, other than actual rain, were generally not omens of good things.

Rucking up the hem of his toga, Crowley hurried through the once dense, crowded streets. Now it seemed like the whole city of Pompeii had taken shelter indoors, hiding from the falling stones beneath their man made roofs. “Come on, come _ on! _” He muttered to himself as more stones began to hail down, smoking slightly and followed by trails of greyish white ash.

As he drew closer to the entrance of the city, the lush vineyards spread out bright and green along both sides of the road, Crowley began to see more people fleeing. In ones and twos, and small families huddled together, they were scurrying away from the wrath of their gods.

Crowley didn’t blame them. He’d burned once, consumed by a lake of burning fire and brimstone. It had scorched his wings black and shattered the pieces of the once-angel that had asked too many questions.

Those flames had stolen his divinity, and his language, and everything that had once been home. 

Only Crowley had been left behind, and had spent thousands of years trying not to mourn the loss of those pieces of himself. 

He couldn’t Fall again, but Crowley’s heart still felt like it was trying to escape from his throat.

“Mama!”

The small, piping voice cut through the clatter of stones on tile, on cobbles, on the backs of the people escaping the city. Crowley’s heart jolted behind his ribs, sick and anxious because he could not stay here. He could not do this again-- this was not the day he would be Discorporated!

“_ Mama! _” 

The cry rang out again, and _ oh Satan damn him _, Crowley found himself turning back towards the city, his gold eyes searching through the thickening crowd for any sign of the speaker. The road was swiftly becoming more and more congested, and overhead the sky had darkened to black. “I need time, a little more bloody time!” He hissed to himself, not sure if he was addressing any greater power specifically.

He’d told Aziraphale once, a long time ago, that you couldn’t kill children. That was as true for the children before the Deluge, as it was for the little Roman girl he caught sight of, huddled beneath a half overturned cart.

_ There, oh there! _

She was a tiny thing, bird boned, and too afraid of the falling rocks and the terrible human din to be wary of Crowley.

He scooped her into his arms, her dark covered in a thin layer of volcanic ash, turning the soft cherub curls to grey. Crowley was sure he looked the same, and the fine particles in the air made his lungs burn when he drew breath.

_ Out, he had to get out! _

Heads down, Crowley and the little girl were slept along by the crowd. People pushed and jostled to get ahead, ducking around those who had stopped in frozen horror to look back. The looming edifice of Vesuvius was wreathed in a cloud of black smoke, shot through with arcs of brilliant blue lightning. “Don’t look.” He muttered under his breath, and cupped his hand against the back of his little girl’s head, pressing her face to his chest.

Crowley didn’t know much about children, but the sight of the erupting volcano even scared him. She shivered in his arms, and buried her face against his neck, and Crowley held onto her with both arms.

The sky was clotted with ash, turning the late afternoon as black as night. Crowley tried not to think about the people being left behind, huddled in their houses as if wood and plaster could keep them safe. Pompeii was starting to burn, and he only had two arms.

Against his chest, the little girl sobbed quietly, her fingers twisted deep into the draped fabric of his formerly fashionable toga. Now the fine linen was smeared with soot and tears, and his sandals slipped on the gritty road stones, damp and sweaty.

There was only forward. Forward, moving with the crowd packed in shoulder to shoulder, shuffling and rushing and forcing themselves through every open gap in their haste to flee.

The ground trembled underfoot, and for a desperately panicked instant, Crowley wanted to unfold his wings and take flight. To rise over the pushing crowd and be gone, gone, _ gone _. To escape this before the world opened up beneath him for a second time, and he would Fall.

Crowley had survived that once, and he didn’t think he could do it again.

“Herculaneum won’t be safe.” He muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, “But if we can get to Stabiae, it might be far enough away.” Misenum would be better, and Crowley wanted to put the whole of the bay between them, and the mountain. But it was in the wrong direction, and if the wind changed? It would blow all the suffocating ash towards Misenum. But was Stabiae far enough from the furious volcano?

No. He didn’t think so.

Misenum would be safer.

He didn’t look back at Pompeii. 

The people had gambled with the Gods, and lost. And Crowley had made it a rule never to look behind him-- there was nothing he could do for them, now.

Like a wave, the displaced people of Pompeii and Herculaneum broke on the shore of the bay. Limned in grey dust and choking on the poisoned air, they were greeted by boats. It was a strange and motley collection, pleasure boats and fishing boats, and captained by the brave men that had looked across the water from Misenum and known they had to help.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale’s voice was frantic, and Crowley’s eyes were burning, blinded, with more than just ash. He didn’t question how his angel had gotten there, and Aziraphale didn’t question the child clutched to Crowley’s breast. 

He just let his angel pull him, and the sobbing child, into his arms. 

Aziraphale smelled of honeysuckle and sunshine, and in the midst of the crowd, Crowley buried his face in the curve of his angel’s neck and tried not to weep. 

“Shh, I’ve got you now, you’re quite safe… Quite safe, my dear… I won’t let anything happen to you.”

_ Safe, yes. Aziraphale would keep him safe. Keep both of them safe. _

Crowley would never be able to explain to Aziraphale how it had felt to face the wrath of God, and to find himself falling-- not into despair or agony, but into the angel’s arms. How Aziraphale had caught the missing pieces of him before they could be lost like the others. 

The mismatched armada of boats began across the water as soon as they were filled; the refugees from Pompeii and Herculaneum pressed in tight to the sides. Nobody wanted to take the risk that someone could be left behind. And as they sailed out into the bay, Crowley couldn’t help but look back.

The once green slopes of Vesuvius were grey with ash, and still the volcano raged, fire spilling down the sides. 

“There won’t be anything left of it, soon.” Aziraphale whispered, his head tilted close to Crowley’s to keep from being overheard. The cities, and the people, would be swallowed up by the ash, and lost to time. And Crowley felt so small as they bobbed along the water towards Misenum. 

He nodded, and didn’t shrug away the offered comfort when Aziraphale wrapped his arm about his shoulders. “We’ll… Have to find a home. For her.” He muttered hoarsely, and wrapped a loose fold of his toga securely around her small body. She was warm in his lap, and he could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, hovering at the edge of sleep. “Can’t take her myself. Demon. Don’t know the first thing about kids.”

“You saved her, Crowley. Demon or not, she--”

“Leave it alone, Angel. How’d you know I was here, anyway?” Crowley coughed shallowly, trying to dislodge some of the ash and dust in his lungs.

Aziraphale sighed, but didn’t push the point. “You’d said you-- When I saw you. In Rome, last? You’d said you might come to see Pompeii. And when I saw…” He motioned towards the devastation, and the mountain, with a tilt of his blonde head, “All of this? I simply, well, I couldn’t take the chance that you were here.”

“You were going to go _ up there _?” Crowley’s voice cracked, and he snapped up his chin to look at Aziraphale, gold eyes staring over the top of his cracked lenses.

“No, no! Well, I’d hoped not, at least. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, if you must know. I just knew I couldn’t leave you there! Not if I could-- if there was anything-- I could do to stop it.” Aziraphale looked sheepishly down at the girl in Crowley’s arms, and adjusted the fold of the toga around her, mostly to busy his hands.

Crowley blinked again, and managed a nod. What was he supposed to say to that?! He was already broken open and vulnerable, and Aziraphale’s words twisted into the hollow spaces in his chest. They offered love and warmth, and it burned beautifully.

“Thank you.” He muttered finally, and rested his heavy head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley had appearances to keep, but for now… _ Just for now _, he promised himself… Aziraphale made him feel safe. He soothed the broken shards of terror that had torn into his chest, and anchored Crowley in the real. The present. 

There was no Fall here. Only the two of them, and a foundling child, bouncing across the water towards safety.

“You’re welcome, dearest… I, well, the world just wouldn’t be the same without you in it.”

For the rest of her life, little Helena would tell people that she had been saved from the fires of Vesuvius by an angel with yellow eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Bay of Neapolis (now Bay of Naples) was home to several busy urban centers when Vesuvius erupted.  
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/3/3f/Mt_Vesuvius_79_AD_eruption.svg/1920px-Mt_Vesuvius_79_AD_eruption.svg.png


	4. Quasahi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is temptation.

**Quasahi; Pleasure.**  
_ Jerusalem, Israel, 1190._

Humans beings were exceptional. Really, properly, no matter what life, or nature, or the Divine-- or, in fact, each other!-- threw at them, they always seemed to find a way to rise back up. Aziraphale had always rather admired that in them. And today was no exception! 

Even in the wake of all the recent awfulness, the market in Jerusalem was bustling with people. Positively cram packed with mothers’ considering their daily fish, their children hanging off their apron strings casting longing looks at the glossy bowls of dates, and the stacks of dripping, cloth wrapped honeycombs.

Aziraphale could hardly blame them for that, it had been an exceptionally excellent year for dates. 

And honey.

And all of the sweet little morsels that were currently doing their best to tempt him.

Not that he was here to sample the produce, of course! No, Heaven had sent him to Jerusalem with a particular goal in mind. Nothing too strenuous, just a little spreading of hope and goodness, and possibly inspiring a talented young artist. If he had the time, of course! 

No, being in the market that particular morning, lingering by the scroll seller’s stall, was just a happy little diversion. And the fact that said seller had the scroll Aziraphale had been searching all over Israel for? Well, it just seemed to be a morning for happy coincidences.

Speaking of…

“What’s this, then? Look at you, angel. All dolled up in your Sunday best.”

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale’s heart stumbled over in his chest and he turned with a little more eager speed than strictly necessary. It had been such a long time since he’d last seen the demon, more than fifty years, which had become something of a rarity for them. Usually they tried to meet up at least once a decade, just to catch up. Events of the day, and all that.

“Oh my dear, I’d just started to think that you’d forgotten all about me. It’s been positively _ ages _, and don’t you look smart!”

He did, for the record. The long length of Crowley’s dark tunic was belted at the waist, in the style favoured by the Crusaders, and it made his already sinewy body look all the more tall and lean. Of course, he’d foregone the usual cross on his chest, but that was only to be expected. Under the early morning sunshine, Aziraphale’s hands itched to reach out and touch the deep, almost black linen, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

“Wish I could say the same. Look at you-- you’re going to disgrace your husband walking around the city like this. You look positively debauched.” Crowley’s smirk was a cheeky thing, all quicksilver edges and teasing amusement. His fingers were cool when he reached out to flick the edge of Aziraphale’s head scarf, baring one of the pale blonde curls that had been trying to escape the cloth.

“Oh don’t be terrible! I’ve missed you, and really, these things are awfully complicated to tie. It took me a small eternity just to get it to sit this nicely. I’d like to see you do better!”

“I can, actually… Want me to give it a twissst?” Crowley dragged the sibilant tone across his front teeth deliberately; and enjoyed the pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks, that had nothing at all to do with his layers, or the increasingly warm morning.

Well, wasn’t that unexpected… And a very pleasant unexpected, too.

Aziraphale’s mouth worked for a moment on his reply, the colour of his lips deepening when he bit down. “Well, we certainly couldn’t do it here! People would talk. It’s unseemly for a widow to be seen in public speaking to strange men, and I do have a reputation to--”

“Oh come on, angel. I’m not asking you to let me deflower you on the stairs of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I’m just going to fix your tichel before it slides off, and you have to fish it out of the gutter.”

“I… I _ suppose _ there’s not much harm in that. Is it really so noticeably wrong?” Aziraphale reached up self-consciously, and felt around the edges where his tichel, tied too loose, had begun to slide back from his forehead.

“Completely. It’s supposed to cover your hair, and you’ve got curls sticking out all over the place.” 

It wasn’t as though Crowley could miss them. The sunlight caught on Aziraphale’s hair, white pale against the dark fabric of his tichel. And Crowley had never really considered hair to be all that sensual, despite the prohibition of showing it off. But he could see the heavy weight of it bound up in black cloth, and couldn’t help but wonder what else his angel was hiding underneath that modest dark dress.

“I’m… I have a room, I’m renting, just around the corner from here. I’m not having you scandalize people in the middle of the market!” Aziraphale squared his shoulders a little, arms crossed beneath the generous swell of his bosom. 

He looked soft, all made of rounded curves draped in folded linen. A thin sliver of wrist peeked from his sleeve when Aziraphale motioned for him to follow-- just a glimpse of blue and purple veins beneath pale skin, and Crowley wondered just who Aziraphale was meant to be mourning. He’d teased about a husband, but could it be the truth?

No no, of course not! The sun was clearly getting to Crowley’s brains. This was _ Aziraphale _ , after all. He wasn’t the sort of angel that felt such things, or _ wanted _ like that. Like Crowley did, staring dry mouthed at a slip of wrist and feeling just a little pathetic about it.

But would it really be such a sin to take his hand and kiss the fluttering pulse in that wrist? Would Aziraphale bat him away, claiming propriety-- or would he maybe, just _ maybe _, let Crowley push back his sleeve, and explore the smooth skin with his lips? 

He could follow the paths of veins, and taste the salt and sweat that had probably gathered in the seam of his elbow. And--

_ Oh Satan _, but he’d been working too much. Clearly.

The apartment itself was on the second floor of a rather small building. A humble pair of rooms, and a view that looked out over the bright, sun baked streets of Jerusalem. As usual, every surface was covered with scrolls, piled into thick pyramids and dominating every inch of table space. Aziraphale had the good grace to look a little sheepish while he tidied away a few of them to make space for Crowley on the settee.

“It’s not much, but it’s quite… It feels very homey to me.”

“Been in the city long?” Crowley asked over his shoulder, and shifted his sword (it looked silly to wear a sword belt without one, after all) to the side as he found his own way into the kitchen. 

“A month. It’s been rather a nice break from all the cold and rain in Gaul. You?”

“Few weeks. Not staying long.” Crowley’s voice echoed back from around the corner, just a moment before he returned with two cups, the sides beaded with moisture. “Too many of your lot hanging around, and not enough of mine. Right, let's take a look at this mess you’ve made with your tichel.” He added after a thoughtful beat, and handed over one of the glasses. 

It was cold to the touch... But what’s a little miracle between friends? And Crowley detested lukewarm peppermint tea. Hated lukewarm most things, in fact. 

Aziraphale huffed under his breath, blue eyes darting for a moment around the room, even though he knew precisely what was in it. A small, beaten copper mirror hung on one wall, in what passed for a tiny vanity. It wasn’t much, but with an extra sigh, just to make sure Crowley knew how very put out he was, Aziraphale sank down onto the nearest stool and squeezed his eyes shut.

“You look like I’m going to bite you.” Crowley drawled, the eye roll audible in his tone, “Just hold still, or it’s going to end up lopsided again.”

“You _ are _ a demon. I’m sure I don’t know what trouble you get up to.” Came the prim reply, but Aziraphale did relax his face a little, one eye half peeking open to watch Crowley work in their reflection.

“So, what’s the purpose of all this mourning? Finally decided to settle down with a nice husband?” Crowley was aware of the toothy, insistent jealousy in his belly, and hoped it didn’t show in his tone. 

Things had been different after Pompeii. The whole ugly event had made Crowley see his angel in a new light, and a thousand years of confusion had come after. Even a demon couldn’t go around seducing angels, no matter how tempting it might be.

It was a very good way to get yourself Discorporated.

Not that Crowley thought his angel would do anything of the sort! No after all this time, at least. But it was never a bad idea to be careful.

“Nothing so ridiculous! People simply… Well, they don’t pay much attention to a widow. And I’m not supposed to be drawing attention to myself. Go in, spread a bit of love, and leave-- that’s the assignment in a nutshell.”

Crowley wanted to point out that it was definitely a case of _ too little, too late _, since the Crusaders had already come and gone. But he didn’t actually want to start a fight with Aziraphale-- and besides, what good would it do? He doubted his angel was any more thrilled with all the senseless violence than he was.

So, this time, Crowley chose to bite his forked tongue and focus on the task at hand. It had been years since he’d worn a headscarf, but the fabric slid through his fingers with a familiar weight, and muscle memory supplied the rest.

His hands were gentle as he pulled the hair pins free, and the whole collection of hair and cloth began to slide dramatically to one side. But it was the long, pale plait of white-blonde hair that caught Crowley’s attention, slithering free of the fabric and falling down Aziraphale’s back. 

He could see where the downy hair at the back of Aziraphale’s neck had been clumsily dragged into the simple braid, and the places where he’d obviously been tugging-- probably trying to ease a tension point-- because the plait was lumpy and loose. “Half the women in the city would pay for your hair, angel, and here you’re abusing it.” 

Aziraphale hadn’t expected the sudden relief when Crowley began unwinding his hair, the messy plait unraveling in his hands. It was glorious, tingling sparks igniting under his fingers and sliding down the back of his neck. He was only half aware of the shallow moan that had escaped his parted lips, and the way he leaned back into his hands-- reluctance giving way to eager encouragement.

Crowley was fairly sure he was going to Discorporate on the spot. _ Christ, _ he blessed, _ what a sound. _

“Like that?” He asked, his voice sounding hoarse in his own ears. It was the same soft, delighted moan that Aziraphale made when he’d tasted something particularly divine, and which always made Crowley shift tensely in his seat. 

“Oh that’s… Yes, that’s very nice…”

Bloody angel, he wasn’t supposed to be alluring. _ Sensual _ was the last word Crowley would have used to describe any of his lot. 

But here he was, long coils of blonde hair spilling through Crowley’s fingers. Pink cheeked and sighing with happiness, and Crowley could almost taste the touch starved _ Oh more, yes, like that, just like that, please more, _ in the air.

He just wasn’t sure which of them needed it more. Lust wasn’t Crowley’s favourite sin to inspire, but he knew the hot pulse of it in his veins, and how it pooled liquidly in the pit of his stomach. Like it was doing at that precise moment.

Gripped with the urge to bury his face in Aziraphale’s curls, Crowley had half leaned over before he caught himself. He could still smell the sweet oil Aziraphale had clearly combed through his hair, the little touch of indulgence that he clearly hadn’t expected anyone to notice. Only, now Crowley couldn’t un-notice, and it would be so easy…

So very easy…

To lean over and…

“Crowley, are you alright? You’ve been combing my hair for quite a while.”

_ Blast it. _

“Fine. Trying to work out the rat’s nest you’ve got going on here.” He sounded defensive, even to his own ears, and sharply dropped the thick mass of Aziraphale’s long curls. 

Crowley supposed he must have imagined the disappointment in Aziraphale’s sighed, “Ah, of course. My apologies. Hair never has been quite my forte.” Because angels, even _ his angel _, would never want him to touch them.

He was a demon. And for half a second, allowed the liberty of combing his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, Crowley had almost forgotten. Had almost allowed himself to believe that he’d ever be allowed this again. 

In their reflection, he caught the way Aziraphale’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and Crowley felt the answering tug low in his belly.

_ Lusting over an angel. Satan save me. _

Swallowing back the dryness in his own throat, sticking slightly, Crowley set his jaw and turned back to his work. “Ah.. so…” He muttered, and tried to will away his tingling fingers when he reached for Aziraphale’s hair again. 

It was harder to ignore shallow sigh of contentment that escaped the angel’s parted lips. _ How am I supposed to focus on anything else when he’s doing that?! _

“We… Really aught to try and have dinner, while you’re in the city. There’s a lovely place in the market.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were burning, and he bit his tongue to stifle a proper moan. Crowley’s fingers were exquisite, his nails grazing his scalp and sending bright sparks fizzling down his spine. Aziraphale’s eyes kept drifting closed, and _ oh no no, _this was supposed to be nothing more than a favour!

Crowley illustrating how to tie the beastly scarf before he continued to embarrass himself. Nothing more!

But it was so very nice…

“Right.” Crowley croaked, and reached for the long length of linen before he did something Aziraphale would probably make him regret. It was easy enough to wrap around the angel’s hair, neatly folding the edges around themselves, and securing his thick, pale hair under the unrelieved black. “Dinner. Tonight?”

Aziraphale nodded, his whole body feeling intensely aware of every shift behind him, every time Crowley adjusted his weight, or moved his hands. “Tonight… Yes, that would be very nice…”

“All done. Your husband won’t be turning in his grave anymore.” 

Crowley’s announcement made Aziraphale jump, and he nodded too quickly. “Thank you. You’re right, that’s _ much _ better.” He agreed, and turned his head a little to see the effect in the mirror. Much more feminine, and certainly more secure than his own attempts.

With a rush, the sounds of the street below reasserted itself, and the heat of the morning pressed down a bit more oppressively. Blushing hotly, Aziraphale reached for his glass of cold tea, and took a few long, restorative gulps.

Crowley looked away, and tugged the sleeves of his tunic straight with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “I should… Go. Work. See you tonight.” He said, already half backing out of the room.

“Yes, tonight… I’ll see you then.” Aziraphale murmured under his breath, not entirely certain that Crowley had even heard him.

_ Goodness gracious… _

Luckily, Aziraphale consoled himself, he had a few hours to read his new scroll. And to pull himself together before dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has a good weekend! (Or week, depending on when you read this!) And the comment section is always open if you want to come chat Good Omens, Ineffable Husbands, or just to history geek out! 💕
> 
> 1\. Tichel, also called a mitpachat, is the Yiddish word for the headscarf worn by many married Orthodox Jewish women in compliance with the code of modesty.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tichel
> 
> 2\. This chapter takes place during a brief lapse in fighting during the start of what would become the Third Crusade (1189-1192)  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_Crusade


	5. Dosig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a human has the power to change the divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
I just wanted to give a massively huge thanks to the people who have commented on the fic. Your words are so encouraging, and they give me the push I need on the days the muses decide not to cooperate! I'm so grateful to all of you! 💕

**Dosig; Night.  
** _England, 1585-1593._

**March, 1585.**

“Mr. Marlowe, I don’t believe there is any need for that speed!”

From his place on his quiet bench, Aziraphale looked up to see a shock of bright auburn hair, turned copper in the slanted spring sunlight. And for a moment, his heart clenched in his chest. The man had a smile like Puck, impish and wild, half hidden when he dropped into a flourished bow. 

“My apologies, Father! It’s such a lovely day, I couldn’t keep my feet still! They carried me along at such a speed, I feared for my life!”

Behind his book of scripture, Aziraphale bit his tongue to silence a laugh. It had been a quiet week of study and reflection, mostly spent with his nose down in a book of human theology. Tucked into a stuffy classroom with a smoky fire and dim lighting, as far from the glories of God’s creation as he could imagine.

_ Learn what the humans are teaching their clergy, Aziraphale. That we might better know how to guide them towards the right path. _

Well, Aziraphale had been thinking, just before the young man came tearing around the corner-- the humans in this age seemed determined to mourn their faith instead of celebrating it. In fact, he’d almost given up hope that there was any life here at all! It was all ascetic, study and denial and the reckoning of sin.

“Yes, well your feet are at the end of your own legs, Mr. Marlowe, and in future, I expect you to keep them better under your guidance. We have students preparing for their holy vows, and I will not have you interrupting their solemn task.” Father Lawrence loomed over the bright haired boy, the breadth of his broad shoulders casting him into shadow.

Well! It was one thing to menace the seminary students, and quite another to intimidate a student from a different part of the university entirely!

Before he’d really stopped to consider the wisdom of his actions, Aziraphale rose to his feet, the priceless illuminated text clutched like a shield to his chest. “Father Lawrence, I believe I’m finished with this. You were right, it was most… Enlightening. And indeed, I feel quite inspired to take a walk.. Among God’s creation. His miracles. That I might better come to understand them for myself!”

Aziraphale had never been a very good liar. His voice tended to rush, tripping over syllables and consonants-- he was an angel, after all. And they were not meant to deceive.

That was something the humans had taught Aziraphale. The measure and worth of a good lie. And even if he wasn’t particularly good at it? The boy looked over at him with blunt surprise on his handsome features, and Aziraphale watched from the corner of his eye as that momentary shock began to melt into his smile again.

Father Lawrence looked like he wanted nothing more than to order Aziraphale back into the dungeon- no, excuse him, the _ classroom _. But couldn’t actually find a good reason to do it. He nodded in a short, displeased way, and reached out to pluck the heavy tome from Aziraphale’s arms possessively. “Indeed.” He drawled roughly, “I’ll speak with you when you’re finished communing.”

The look on his face was dark and disapproving, and Aziraphale couldn’t (at least, not to himself) deny that he was looking forward to escaping it for a while. The head priest of the Cambridge seminary was entirely too eager to see sin and vice in every word, every action, and Aziraphale had often wondered if he held himself to the same high standard.

“You have my thanks, but I don’t even know your name!” The man beamed at Aziraphale, and the sun through his auburn hair haloed in with copper. 

_ Oh _, it had been such a long time since he’d seen Crowley! 

Decades, now. Both of them had been exceptionally busy. The world was changing after centuries of stillness and doctrine, and the humans were casting off the heavy cloaks they’d worn for generations. People wanted more, they craved more, and that had made a fertile garden for both good, and evil, to thrive in.

But he missed him. In the quiet moments, something in Aziraphale’s chest ached, and his thoughts often returned to the demon that had been such a constant (if not always present) fixture in his life.

Well, he was probably out inspiring all matter of very naughty and wicked deeds! Not the sort of thing an angel could dwell on. Or be curious about, for that matter!

“Ezra… Ezra Fell. It’s… Well, it’s quite a pleasure to meet you, Mr..?”

“Marlowe. Christopher.” The man held a hand to his chest briefly, and sketched Aziraphale a dramatic bow, one arm flung cheekily out to the side. “You’re taking your vows?” Christopher asked in almost the same breath, and Aziraphale noted the way his eyes seemed to linger on the unrelieved black of his cassock, and the hollow of his throat were his clerical collar would sit in a few days’ time.

“Oh yes! I am.. Nearly finished here, in fact. I’m rather going to miss it when I return to London.”

With a dramatic swoop that Aziraphale felt reflected in his belly, Christopher caught his soft, ink-stained hand, and brushed a kiss across his knuckles. Azraphale knew he was blushing, he could feel the heat of it rising in his cheeks. But Christopher was smiling, and _ oh dear _, but he was charming.

“Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to see you there. I’ll be a great playwright, and show you parts of the city a man of the cloth was never meant to see. It’s the very least I could do, after you rescued me!”

“How very sensational, it was hardly a rescue! A little diversion, perhaps, but you make it sound like I swept in to save you from some vicious monster.”

Christopher laughed, loud and open, and Aziraphale found himself smiling like he hadn’t done in … Decades? Longer. Certainly longer. But Christopher had such magnetic delight, and Aziraphale.. It had been too long since he’d felt his heart grow a little lighter. 

“Ah, but you don’t know what Father Lawrence wears under his robes. Perhaps he’s a demon in disguise, here to tempt the students away from their books!”

_ Not very likely, my dear. I think I would have noticed something like that. _Aziraphale’s mouth quirked up doubtfully, and it only made Christopher laugh all the harder, his head thrown back with mirth.

“You don’t need to give me such eyes, Ezra! Let me buy you a pint, as an apology for disparaging the name of your-- I’ve not doubt, very competent-- professor!” He didn’t even wait for a response, and their hands were still joined when Aziraphale let Christopher drag him away from his shady bench, and into the brilliant spring sunshine.

“I... suppose a short break couldn’t do much harm…”

But his fingers tingled where they knotted through Christopher’s, and it had been such a long time since he’d been so close to anyone.

**April 1585**

“And hail the conquering priest, Father Ezra Fell! Resplendent in his unrelieved black, for as everyone knows, the clergy is allergic to all things bright and gay, so they hide them away beneath all of this layered darkness!”

Christopher’s cheeks were flushed bright as he leaped from the step of The Bird, wearing a broad grin that was so contagious Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile back. With familiar hands that cared nothing for the curious onlookers, the capering playwright gathered the blushing priest in by his sleeves, and pretended to give him a considering once-over.

“A week in the cloth, and it hasn’t sucked the life from you yet, Father! Your face still holds traces of the student I knew, and there’s no hump on your back. No cane in your hand! My library mouse is made on some stern stuff!”

“I- Oh _ Christopher _, honestly! My soul is fine, and yours-”

“Is too merry to go to Hell, my sweet church mouse! When I die, I shall be elevated by a chorus of angels, all waiting with rapt attention for me to read them my new work! I’ve been waiting for you to come home, so I could whisper it in your ear myself.” Christopher leaned against his side, one lean arm thrown companionably across Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

He was so quick, so brilliant under the lamplight, and Aziraphale wanted desperately to believe him. Christopher would be different, his faith insisted; God, for all her capriciousness, would be able to see the true goodness in him.

She had to.

“You’d mentioned in your letter, yes, that you were working on something exciting. A translation?”

“Ovid.”

“_ Ovid? _” Aziraphale coughed over the word, his eyebrows jumping in surprise, “That’s a… challenging decision.” 

Christopher threw his head back and laughed, his lanky frame draped familiarly against Aziraphale’s side, “You mean it’s not for moral eyes to see, nor moral ears to hear! But it inspires me, Ezra; just as your God inspires your sermons. Or I hope he does, otherwise your congregation might be napping in the pews!”

“Don’t say such things, I’m quite nervous enough without your help!”

“Nervous? Then I’ll help you!” With a flourish, madcap and beaming, Christopher sank to a knee in the middle of the street, wet cobbles leaving stains on the knees of his hose. With a performer’s flair he schooled his expression into a terrible visage of guilt, and pressed Aziraphale’s warm hand to his forehead. 

“You should have been an actor. You’re on the wrong side of the curtain, Kit.” Aziraphale chided affectionately.

“Perhaps! However, we’re discussing your work, not mine! Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I’ve looked at lascivious texts, and created a space for them in my soul! I’ve been disobedient-”

Aziraphale had to bite his tongue to stifle a snort of laughter.

“You’re going to be a terrible priest if you laugh at the sins of your congregation! Now, where was I? Oh yes-- Disobedience! I’ve lusted, and drank-- what other sins are there I must confess to? I’ve waylaid a priest, on his way to his prayers-- and thought the most wicked things about running my hands through his-”

“That’s quite enough! If you give me any more, my dear, you’ll be doing penance for the rest of your life. Now up, up off the ground, you’re going to hurt your knees.”

“When I say my prayers tonight, I’ll think of you.”

“Better you think of God!”

Christopher was so very warm, his body pressed along the side of Aziraphale’s when he vaulted back to his feet. “Perhaps, but do you absolve me?”

Aziraphale wished he could.

**February, 1588.**

_“Golden arrow? And what would we do with a golden arrow? Give it to Alan for a lute string? I could hang it around my neck on a chain, perhaps, and let it stab me in the ribs when I tried to sit!” _

The actor’s thudding steps echoed across the stage boards; and his one hand was forever moving, gesturing, cutting through the air to make his point. Aziraphale privately thought it gave him a somewhat lopsided air, but his voice was clear and loud, and the people in the small theatre seemed to love him.

Of course, he added to himself, that might have more to do with the fact that it’s a distraction from the constant rain that’s been falling for weeks. It was cold outside, and the streets were filthy with grey mud and other slippery unmentionables. But in the theatre it was warm; fifty sweating bodies and the glow from the braziers someone had lit in the corners, chasing away the chill for a few hours.

All in all, a most pleasant way to pass a grey, miserable afternoon!

Even a priest needed a little diversion once in a while. From his place in the seats, Aziraphale unfolded the pasty he’d purchased from one of the stalls outside the theatre. The flaky pastry had crumbled at the corners, and a few smears of the savoury filling stained the cloth it had been wrapped in. Luckily, he wasn’t planning to use the scrap for anything else, and it worked well enough to keep the worst of the crumbs off his robe.

The theatre emptied during the intermission, with most of the playgoers hurrying outside to the stalls to grab a little morsel of their own. From his vantage point, the angel could look down on the rows of seats, and the much larger area of standing room. Usually that was where he stood, but people in this era seemed unwilling to allow the clergy to mingle with the commoners, and he’d been rather briskly ushered up to an empty seat.

Well, he wasn’t going to complain, after all. It was certainly more comfortable!

“Ezra Fell! I suppose it’s _ Father _, now. Do I have to kiss your ring and call you You Holiness?”

Aziraphale beamed up at the figure weaving his way through the aisles. He’d seen Christopher half a dozen times in the last year; usually half glimpsed as his friend-- well, the term could be applied loosely, though he supposed ’acquaintance’ was more accurate-- hung about in the stage wings. A half seen flash of telltale auburn hair, and that devil-may-care smile.

“You most certainly do not! You’re an imp still, I see.” Aziraphale brushed crumbs from his fingers, and motioned for Christopher to take the empty seat beside him, but the other man just waved off the offer, and perched on the edge of the railing instead. 

“And you make me sound like a very small goblin. Imp, indeed, my friend! You could call me a rake, a cad… A most wicked libertine! I’d be far happier with those.”

“And are you, in truth, any of those things?”

“You speak to God, you can ask him about the state of my soul, yourself. I’ve seen you here a few times, the players are starting to think you’re my good luck charm. The performances always seem to run better when you’re in the audience.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened, and he murmured something soft and bashful that wasn’t really words, more of a pink-cheeked hum. “This... But this isn’t your play, surely?”

“Robin Hood? Hardly! I claim no ownership over this melodrama. But I do know the writer, so I promised to come see it performed.” The corners of Christopher’s mouth pinched in tightly, and for a moment, he let Aziraphale see the way his shoulders slumped under their invisible burden. “My own writing has stopped completely. I’ve finished a thousand pages of useless verse, but still the nature of the man eludes me!”

Christopher heaved a giant sigh, the sound dredged up from the pit of his stomach, and dragged his elegant hands roughly through his bright hair. 

Aziraphale had half risen from his seat to reach out to him, fingers extended, before he thought better of it. Would that be too much? They scarcely knew one another, but he doubted Christopher would take much from even a carefully worded promise that things would get better. That he had to be patient, and have faith.

And the angel’s heart stuttered when Christopher reached out to him, and their hands met midway.

“Your problem, my dear, is that your mind is faster than your quill. You have so many words to say, and can’t put them on the page fast enough to satisfy your inspiration.”

“I have no inspiration, no muse! No desire… I’m going to be a failure as a playwright, and my unfinished scenes will paper my desk, and overflow onto the floor, while the rest of them see their work on the stage.”

“Well, you’re certain to make that a self-fulfilling truth! I saw your play about Dido before I left Cambridge, and it was wonderful, utterly wonderful. You’re not giving yourself nearly the credit you deserve. Let John Fletcher have this year to be the toast of London-- the inspiration will come, and so will your time.”

Christopher beamed suddenly, and Aziraphale felt that funny drop in his stomach when he pressed a smiling kiss to the back of his hand. “Is this divine proclamation, or just your wishful thinking for me?” He teased, and Aziraphale knew he was flushed pink.

“The latter, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on their joined fingers, and the way Christopher held them to his mouth, each word puffing with warm breath. 

“Good. I have more faith in your good wishes, than God’s blessing.”

**August, 1588.**

“Bollocks to this maggot infested play! It makes me sick to look on it!”

Aziraphale started in surprise, his head snapping up from the ink smudged page in front of him, all thoughts of his half finished sermon evaporating.

In a wild fit, Christopher stormed through the church, his clothes were soaked through with the pouring rain outside, and left a snail-trail of dampness behind him. With long, angry strides he swept down the aisle between the pews and threw up his hands, one still clutching his sodden manuscript.

“It cannot be done, Ezra-- cannot! There are no words left in me, and this _ cursed thing _ is going to be the death of me! I’m tormented with dialogue that despises me, and I loathe it equally in return! My inspiration has abandoned me, and there’s nothing left in my world but failure, ale, and you!”

“Oh dearest…” Aziraphale’s words were barely an exhale, and his heart clenched in his chest when Christopher dropped to his knees in front of the pew. Like a child he buried his face in the soft, sweet smelling warmth of the angel’s lap, and threw his arms about Aziraphale’s waist in a desperate attempt to keep him from pulling away.

“ ‘The Trials of Venus’ will never be finished, and it will hang over my head like a guillotine blade for the rest of this _ miserable _ life. It’s going to be the undoing of me, Ezra… Oh _ God _, but I despise the thing!”

It wasn’t the first time they’d been here. Or even the first this month. With gentle hands, Aziraphale smoothed Christopher’s sopping hair from his forehead, and ignored the way the wetness of it seeped into his cassock. “Perhaps it’s time to accept that this isn’t the story you’re being inspired to write.” He sighed, and his fingers lingered for a moment over Christopher’s temple. “You’re not suffering for your art, this is just… Suffering, for no reason at all.”

“No reason?! I-” Reeling back, Christopher fixed Aziraphale with the start of a scathing glare, his hair wild on one side. But it left as quickly as it had come, exposing the raw edges of the man beneath. 

“I write of a love I don’t understand. It’s selfless, and chaste, and _ good _, and I despise it! The love I know is thwarted, and bitter. It gnaws at my insides, because God and the Law have commanded it to die! To wither, half grown on the vine of my affections! I can watch him from a distance, but he is as untouchable, unattainable, as the stars!” Christopher stumbled as he threw himself to his feet, voice raised and echoing in the silent vault of the chapel.

“God has put these words, this love in me-- and to what end!? I am damned, Ezra, and you-- _ you! _\-- You have placed your bastard God between us, and pretend you can’t see the way I love you!”

Aziraphale stumbled back, nearly tripping over the long hem of his cassock when Christopher lunged, dragging the angel into his arms. And they were both breathing harsh and fast when his lips descended, and stole the air from Aziraphale’s body. 

This was what humans thought flying must be like, a dizzying drop and the world opening up before you. It was falling, tumbling through the ether for a violent instant, before being caught in safe arms. It was… Oh, it _ was _.

And Aziraphale didn’t know how to clutch him back tightly enough-- had Christopher been right? Had he wanted this all along?

_ Yes… _ ** _Yes_ ** . _ Oh God, but he did! _ Pleaded the voice of his honest nature. He’d wanted this from the moment he’d seen his shock of auburn hair, bright in the sunlight. And Aziraphale thought, just for a moment, that he was… _ oh…. _

Christopher’s thick hair was damp when Aziraphale tangled his fingers through it, both of them frantic to close the space between them. It was rough, with too much teeth and too little tenderness, their hearts beating a ragged tattoo between their chests.

And this was forbidden. Had always been.

But Christopher tasted of wine, and his hands twisted into great fistfulls of black wool to pull him closer. And it was a sin, but Aziraphale had been so alone, so terribly alone in his own skin. Too long on Earth, too long behind the church walls. Too long watching Christopher in the sun, gilded with dusty gold and copper light, and beautiful.

Pleasure sparked through his body, rich with temptation, and Aziraphale scarcely noticed when the pew bumped into the back of his calves, because Christopher was pressing him back against the wood. It rocked slightly, the wooden legs rattling on the cold stone floor, and caught their weight when they stumbled.

Beneath the beatific figure of the crucified saviour, their cold fingers burrowed beneath heavy, clerical wool and summer weight linen, searching for flesh and friction. They were clumsy on belts and buckles, until it was simply easier to shove it all to the side. 

Christopher’s breath was hot as a brand against his throat, and his frantic, bruising hands gripped a tapestry of fingerprints into Aziraphale’s pale hips. 

It was madness, and the sound of their desire echoed and reverberated in the still air of the cathedral; voices raised in a very different sort of worship.

And it didn’t feel wicked when Christopher spilled over his fingers, his body collapsing, gasping, against Aziraphale’s chest. Slowly, he curled his arms around his human, and felt the fresh dampness of Christopher’s tears as he wept his frustration and relief into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It felt like being struck clean.

“Shh… Shh… It’s… Oh, my dearest, it’s alright… I’ve got you.” Aziraphale whispered against the crown of his head, and cradled Christopher in arms that wanted to protect him. 

Aziraphale wasn’t certain if they were strong enough. He’d failed before, and Christopher was so precious in his embrace. But he held as tight as he could, and buried his face in his thick waves of damp, candle lit hair.

Christopher wasn’t Crowley, he wasn’t Damned. Wasn’t made of lanky angles, and bright gold eyes. He was beautifully flawed, and incandescently human. 

They clung to one another in the dim quiet of the church, their bodies tangled together in the front pew. 

And if Aziraphale’s mind kept drifting back to Crowley? Well, this was a church. Sanctified and holy, and no demon could set foot here.

No, best for all involved that he not think too much on his demon. Or where he was. Or why he’d been gone so very long.

“Tell me you love me.” Christopher whispered huskily against Aziraphale’s throat.

  
“I do... I always have.”

**September 1589**

_ The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,  
_ _ The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.  
_ _ O I’ll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?   
_ _ See, see where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament!   
_ _ One drop would save my soul, half a drop: ah my Christ—  
_ _ Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;_  
Yet will I call on him—O spare me, Lucifer!

Aziraphale’s soul shrank back from the words, their defiant anger scrawled across the page in Christopher’s slanted hand. The cheap blank ink had a watery look at the edges, the pigment giving way to the water that had been used to cut it, and Aziraphale wished he could wash it clean.

“Kit…” He breathed, and thumbed the tattered edge of the parchment, “This is… You can’t _ possibly _ be thinking about performing this. The Church--” Aziraphale hated the way his voice constricted with fear, how it stole the strength from his words.

Christopher glared down into the hearth, and gave the fresh log a sharp jab with the end of the poker, urging the edges of it to fray and catch fire. “Oh, that’s a rich irony! Ezra Fell: Priest, scholar. Sodomite and hypocrite!” He rounded on the bed, where his lover of the past year lay beneath the blankets, the firelight playing on every inch of pale, bared skin. 

“Kit- stop it! Please, dearest, I’m… You know I fear for-” With fumbling hands, Aziraphale reached for his cassock, the black edge trimmed in thread-of-gold, a gift from the bishop for his excellent works. He’d been proud of it at the time, this symbol of his respect within the Church. Now it felt cheap and ostentatious, as vulgar as the rouge on a whore’s cheek.

“For my soul? You’ve been creeping away from the chapel and into my bed for over a year. You love me-- no matter that you refuse to say it! And still you scuttle away, back to your holy church of eunuchs before dawn. You pretend not to know the heat of my hands on your body, and you cover over the brands of our passion with all of -- _ this! _ Vestments and holy things, like your cross will absolve you from what we do at night! _ ” _

Heedless of his own nudity, Christopher snapped a furious hand towards his hastily dressing lover. His hands were hard and tight as they grabbed his sleeve, and wheeled Aziraphale around to look at him.

In the firelight, Christopher’s auburn hair was brilliant red, haloed in flickering light. And Aziraphale wanted nothing more in all the world than to gather him against his heart. To told him safe and apart from the world that was tormenting him so.

He looked so much like… _ Oh Crowley, if only you were here… You’d know what to say to him. _

“Fear for your own soul, _Father_. I made my choice. You can’t go around buggering priests without accepting that your soul is a tarnished, feral thing. If I’m damned, then the fault of it lies half with you! I love you, Ezra! With so much passion my heart threatens to shatter in my chest for want of you loving me in return. Leave the Church, stay with me!” 

His haunted gaze burned through Aziraphale, wild and pleading. And for a moment, he wished he could say yes. 

If he were human... If only he were human. The days of his life would be short, but if he could spend them here? With this man? They could share their meals, and this bed; they could thumb their noses at the Law that swore their affection was a sin. 

Tears burned hot at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes when he reached up to untangle Christopher’s grasping fingers from his sleeve. “I… Can’t. You know I can’t!” His voice cracked over the broken syllables, and it took more strength than Aziraphale knew he had to step back from Christopher’s ravaged expression.

“I know you _ won’t! _Just as I know you sometimes wish I was someone other than I am! Who do you dream about, Ezra, when you’re lying in my arms? Whose body are you comparing mine to?”

“It’s not like that, it isn’t! There’s nobody else. Nobody!”

“Liar! Another sin for your spoiled soul!”

“I made my vows, my loyalty must be to God before all others! I swore it, Kit-- this is the life I was created for! And how I feel for you…” Tears rolled down his cheeks, but when Christopher reached up to blot them away with his sleeve, Aziraphale cringed back. “Kit, the part of me that’s only a man? It loves you. But my heart and soul are not mine to give.”

“Don’t do this.. Ezra, please. I need you. You can’t _ leave _me. Not tonight-- not like this!”

Christopher kissed him like he would vanish. All bruised lips, and the taste of bitter loss already stealing into the sweetness of him. 

Aziraphale was soft in his arms, yielding under the pressure of his mouth. But it felt like a goodbye. The harder Christopher clutched at him, the further away he seemed, and no mortal could hold on tightly enough to contain an angel.

When they parted, it was Aziraphale who left the room. 

He did not turn back.

**June 1593.**

“Aziraphale! Just the angel I was looking for. There’s a play being staged down at the Globe, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in-- angel?”

Crowley stopped midway through his, only slightly practiced, speech. It was a lovely afternoon, bright and balmy, with just enough of a breeze to make the air feel fresh and clean, even in the fetid middle of London. It was, in fact, precisely the sort of day that usually put his angel in exceptionally good spirits.

Especially when they hadn’t seen one another in quite some time. Quite a longer time than Crowley had intended-- but that was work. Sometimes things simply didn’t go according to plan.

But Aziraphale looked like he had a dark cloud following him, a pallor to his skin that Crowley simply couldn’t explain. And didn’t like, not in the slightest. Aziraphale was soft, he _ loved _ in the way that all angels should… And most didn’t.

The idea of something weighing so heavily on his angel’s spirit made Crowley’s mind itch, wanting to find some way to lift the burden from him.

“Crowley! I… Well it has been.. It’s been such a very long time!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and clasped one hand over the front of his doublet, the creamy material brocaded with seams in the palest blue. The colour of the sky, and of Aziraphale’s eyes when he was happy. Crowley loved that colour. 

“I’d been … I’d been rather worried, in fact! I thought you were planning to be back ages ago.”

“You sure you’re alright, angel? You’re looking a little peaky.”

“Yes yes, fine, entirely fine. It’s been quite a long decade-- I’m looking forward to a short rest, providing the... Authorities-” Aziraphale cast a speaking gaze upwards, “Are amenable, of course. Now, what were you saying about some performance?”

There’s something bruised about Aziraphale, and the awareness of it sat heavily in Crowley’s chest. He could sense it, a dull, radiating pain that pulsed through the angel’s aura. As the divine can sense the cardinal virtues, demons can sense the baser sins.

This felt like a wound. Something that would eventually turn bitter and infected. It would scar, if Aziraphale let it, and taint some of the goodness he had carried to Earth from Heaven.

And Crowley hadn’t been there.

The thought tasted sour at the back of his throat. He wasn’t accustomed to guilt, he was a demon, after all. 

Some human had worked their way under his angel’s skin, probably seeking the same holy light that had always lured Crowley in.

Some predator, seeing the soft, yielding wonderfulness of _ his angel _.

And Crowley hadn’t been here. Hadn’t stopped it. The flare of angry self recrimination was only half familiar, and no more pleasant than the guilt. Should he ask what had happened while he was away?

Did he want to know? 

“A play. At the Globe.” Crowley started again, “I don’t know the writer, but apparently he died a bloody awful death recently, and a few of the companies are getting together to celebrate his-- Aziraphale?!”

Maybe, Crowley decided, already reaching out for Aziraphale, that he never ask. His heart was already seething with jealousy. 

Even Crowley could remember enough of his flayed virtues to know that no good would come from those questions, or those answers.

Aziraphale had stumbled, one hand thrown out to catch himself against Crowley’s shoulder. “Fine, fine, my dear! It’s… I must have taken a little too much sun. Silly me… I think I really aught to raincheck on the play, but you should go, there’s no reason--”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale like he’d just suggested the demon take a pleasant stroll through a holy water swamp, and wrapped his arm around the angel’s shoulder to steady him. “Right, sun. Come on, angel. I’ll walk you home.” He repeated dubiously, in a tone that said, _ I’ve seen you standing in the middle of the desert without complaining of the heat. What are you hiding? _

He never found out. 

And Father Ezra-- now simply Ezra Fell, having left the clergy-- was a frequent fixture at the playhouse for many years after. 

Sometimes, Crowley watched him, following the path of Aziraphale’s gaze as he looked passed the actors on the stage. Like he was waiting for something-- someone?-- to come striding from the wings. 

But they never came, and eventually, Aziraphale stopped looking.

**December 1985**

“Aziraphale? Come on, angel, we’re going to be late!” For what felt like the millionth time, Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the staircase, half hidden around the corner of an overflowing bookshelf. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been left to wait. Long enough that Crowley was feeling decidedly annoyed… But of course, demons weren’t known for their patience.

“You’re the one who wanted to see this bloody film in the first place…”

With little else to do, Crowley paced around the shop. His steps eventually fell into a circuit from the front door (reaching up to flick the small brass bell, there to warn Aziraphale of new customers) to the private recesses in the back, with a figure eight detour around the counter on the way. 

But pacing was even more boring than waiting! Honestly… “Hurry up! Just miracle yourself something, it’ll be fine!”

“Just one more moment, my dear, I’m very nearly finished!” Came the distracted reply, echoing down the stairs accompanied by the rattle and crash of something. Probably a book.

Crowley pulled a face, already feeling grouchy and irritable when he finally dropped down onto the couch in the back room. At least it was more comfortable than wearing new grooves in the book shop floor. Marginally. After a few thousand years, he thought Aziraphale might have gotten the hang of being anywhere on time-- but apparently that hadn’t happened yet!

As usual, the small coffee table was overflowing with books. Their ancient spines cracked, and gold embossed letters on the covers almost completely worn away. With no intention of actually reading the thing, Crowley reached over and fished the top volume from the stack.

“The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus.” He muttered aloud, turning the cover towards the light so he could make out the vestiges of the words on the cover. “Strange sort of book for an angel to have in his shop.” Crowley added, more to fill the silence, and flipped open the slim volume to read the inscription on the front cover.

“Sin, vice… Necromancy… Satanism…” It sounded like a good week for his lot, but he’d known Aziraphale for millennia, and never expected the angel to go in for that sort of thing. Of course, he had to admit, it was just as likely that Aziraphale had scooped it up simply because it was a first edition, and he was a bit of a magpie when it came to his books.

“Crowley? Are you ready?” 

Aziraphale’s voice sounded faintly tinny from the stairwell, and before Crowley could think too much more on books and angels, the particular angel in question popped around the corner of the bookshelf.

“Am I ready? I’ve been ready for an hour. Just waiting on you. Come on, we’re going to miss the previews.”

“Ah yes… A little demonic annoyance before the film even begins. You wily old serpent, I’m still convinced mass advertising was one of yours.”

Had Crowley looked through the pages, he would have seen the small, handwritten note tucked carefully between the middle pages. It had been there for nearly four hundred years, the ink preserved with a minor miracle, because there were some things Aziraphale couldn’t bear to lose.

_ Why should you love him whom the world hates so? _ _  
_ _ Because he loves me more than all the world. _

_ My Ezra, come back to me. The days have stretched on into eternity without you. I’ll be better to you this time, I swear it. I’ll share you with the Church, and never breathe a word of complaint. _

_ Please, my love. I’m damned without you. _

_ For all the days of my life I shall be,  
_ _ Faithfully, your Christopher. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ovid was a Roman poet who lived during the reign of Augustus.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovid
> 
> 2\. _“Golden arrow? And what would we do with a golden arrow? Give it to Alan for a lute string? I could hang it around my neck on a chain, perhaps, and let it stab me in the ribs when I tried to sit.” _  
Is a quote from Robin McKinley, The Outlaws of Sherwood.
> 
> 3\. _The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,_  
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.  
Is from Christopher Marlowe's play 'The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus'.  
"The powerful effect of early productions of the play is indicated by the legends that quickly accrued around them—that actual devils once appeared on the stage during a performance, "to the great amazement of both the actors and spectators", a sight that was said to have driven some spectators mad."  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doctor_Faustus_(play)


	6. Ialpir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is light in dark places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! The last chapter got some amazing, inspiring support, so here's the next one up earlier than expected! The muses decided to cooperate! 💕

**Ialpir; Flames.  
** _1628._

**London, England.**

“Crowley, please, my dear-- don’t go.” 

A small scattering of crumbs struck the surface of the duck pond, and floated there for a second, before vanishing beneath a storm of mottled feathers and snapping beaks. “Angel, it’s not as easy as just _ not going _. This is work.” Crowley reminded him for what felt like the dozenth time, and absently thumbed the edge of the dry, stale roll he was crumbling for the ducks. “They expect me to be there, as assigned.”

_ And my side don’t take kindly to demons shirking their duties _, Crowley thought. Aziraphale’s slightly pale look was evidence enough that the angel understood.

At his side, Aziraphale fidgeted with a new book he’d stumbled upon that afternoon, and stopped just short of creasing the spine in his agitation. “There must be something you can do! I refuse to believe that-- Crowley, they’re killing people! And I… I don’t know what I would do if…”

_ If anything happened to you, _ whispered the voice in the back of his mind, always ready to supply an unhelpful revelation. 

They’d seen each other more often in the last few decades; The Arrangement turning into something more like a social occasion. Aziraphale enjoyed their sporadic dinners, and their walks through the park. He even enjoyed the unexpected delight (and it was delightful, it really was) of having Crowley appear on his doorstep, armed with old bread for the birds, or slightly battered books he thought the angel would like.

It seemed important, somehow. And Aziraphale found his mind drifting back to his friend.. Friend, yes, they were friends… Whenever they were apart.

The fact that Crowley showed up outside his shop at all, with that artfully disaffected smile-- as if he’d simply been in the neighbourhood, breezing a casual ‘_ oh, how did that book get there? You might as well have it, I won’t read it’ _.

And Aziraphale had started to invite him in, which made Crowley smile-- brief and slanted, before the demon would look away and hide it.

He’d become familiar, and Aziraphale liked him that way.

Crowley’s throat worked, and for a long minute he turned his attention to the flapping birds. “Look, I’ll be back in a few weeks. I’ll even bring you back a bottle of that white Steinwein wine you’ve been going on about.” He tried to mollify the angel, not enjoying the two vivid spots of colour that were appearing fretfully on the apples of Aziraphale’s cheeks.

Something had happened in his last absence, and Crowley had made an effort to be around more often after that. He still wasn’t sure what that something was, and he still didn’t want to ask.

Just in case. There were some answers he didn’t think he wanted. And some questions that were potentially not worth the pain of knowing.

That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way. Over and over again. 

Still, he supposed that _ something _was the reason Aziraphale was so concerned about his safety now. After all, he’d been on more dangerous assignments than this! They both had. “I’m going to be fine, angel. Just a quick pop over to Germany, and I’ll be back in time to take you to that bloody depressing play you like so much.” 

Crowley half reached out to Aziraphale before thinking better of it. It was one thing to pine after an angel in the privacy of your own wretched skull, and it was another entirely to act on it.

“It’s not right... It’s so, well, _ fundamentally _, not right. All of this beastly business, and in Her name, as well.” Aziraphale fretted, his fingers moving once more across the leather of his book, tracing the gold gilt lettering on the front cover.

“Is it your lot doing this? I didn’t think it was ours.”

“I…_ believe, _ but of course, I can’t be entirely sure… That it’s something of a-- well, I suppose you could say it was a _ joint venture _ , but that’s hardly accurate. Your lot was having a little too much fun tempting people, and that never ends well. We _ had _ to step in…”

The book in Aziraphale’s hand creaked slightly when he gripped it, the spine protesting under pressure.

“Oh come on, angel. You don’t like this any more than I do.” Crowley tilted his head and arched an eyebrow pointedly. 

“I… I don’t _ know _ what to think! It’s a nightmare, Crowley, and you’re going to get hurt, I just know it.” 

With a heavy sigh, Crowley leaned against the railing, and tossed the last few scraps of bread to the greedy birds. There wasn’t much he could say to Aziraphale to set his mind at ease. 

Satan! There wasn’t enough reassurance to even give himself, much less a worried celestial. “It’s only a few weeks. I’ll be careful. Just a few temptations, and I’ll be--”

“You know, Crowley… I don’t, well, business has been rather slow, and it’s not like I’m needed in the city at the moment. I could go with--”

“_ No _.” Crowley’s voice cut across Aziraphale’s, and he felt his stomach twist nauseously, “You stay here, angel. Safer here. I’ll be back before you know it.”

**Würzburg, Germany.**

Aziraphale was never going to let him hear the end of this.

The cell was chill and damp, with slimy lichen and mold growing through the spaces in the stone bricks. The cold was almost welcome on his burns, but the rest of Crowley despised it. He was a snake, meant for the heat, and not this blasted climate. It was too cold, too wet, and Crowley wanted desperately to be anywhere else.

Of course, he supposed bitterly, that was half the point of a dungeon. People weren’t supposed to want to be there.

In the darkness, twelve other women, and four small children, huddled in the corner. They were ragged and scared, and the scent of mortal terror and human waste was suffocating. A low, thin sob broke the leaden silence occasionally, echoing from somewhere down the corridor outside their cell.

These weren’t hardened criminals, they were just women. Scared. Some of them clutching to their children, they were the unlucky ones; or staring up at the slit window, set high in the wall. They were the ones that prayed for the safety of the families they could no longer protect. And Crowley empathized, his own guts twisted in his belly anxiously.

The bastards in power here had a lot to answer for, and Crowley quietly stewed in his bitter helplessness.

Down the corridor outside their cell, Crowley could hear other voices, and tried not to think too closely about the sheer number of people that had been taken. Instead, the demon curled into his own corner, and wrapped the meagre weight of his shawl more securely around his shoulders.

This was one job he should have traded with Aziraphale. But no, he’d been cocky and over confident, and it had only taken one man, and one sidelong glance behind the smoked lenses of his glasses, for Crowley to find himself in very hot water.

“More like bloody cold water.” He muttered into his shawl.

The Inquisitors had very quickly discovered what happened when you placed the sign of the cross in the hands of a demon. Shuddering, Crowley pressed his palm to the damp, chilly wall, and bought himself a few seconds of relief from the persistent burn.

_ Thank Satan they hadn’t thought to use Holy Water. _ He thought grimly, and almost considered praying to a God that had forsaken him, that they wouldn’t think of it the next day.

And what if they did? Crowley would be gone, and Aziraphale left behind. And who would ever think to tell a bookseller, thousands of miles away, that one condemned witch had died? Aziraphale would be… Would…

Would he miss him?

Would he be waiting in his shop, surrounded by his books, waiting for Crowley? Unaware that he wouldn’t be coming home?

Ashamed of his own weakness, Crowley dragged his knees up tighter to his chest, and willed himself far away. It didn’t work.

“Crowley? _ Crowley! _ What are you? Oh, you have to be in here somewhere…”

Crowley’s head snapped up sharply at the familiar cadence of the voice. He’d know it anywhere, but this was a long way from London, and the angel’s comfortably appointed life. Crowley couldn’t see anything beyond the wall directly across from his barred cell, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d hallucinated it.

It would be just his luck to face Discorporation (_ or worse _, his imagination supplied unhelpfully) with an angelic apparition haunting him.

“Crowley! Oh, thank goodness! I’d thought I’d lost you!”

With a flustered glance over his shoulder, Aziraphale appeared outside the cell door, and Crowley blinked sharply in surprise.

Not his imagination, then.

Just one ridiculous, impossible angel… Who had come to save him.

“Angel! What the bloody…” He almost blessed, and hurried up to the bars, “What are you doing here, Aziraphale?! It’s not safe!” 

“Why, I’m here to get you, of course. What else would I be doing? I wasn’t going to let you simply… Oh my, no. _ No _. When you didn’t come back to London, I got rather worried, and--” Aziraphale’s expression was pinched with fear, and before he could consider the wisdom of his actions (or lack thereof) he reached through the bars and touched Crowley’s shoulder.

There was no time to explain how the days had dragged on, or the sense of dread that he hadn’t been able to shake. 

Aziraphale knew he wasn’t brave like the other angels. Wasn’t good, or wise, or just, in the way they were. But for Crowley? _ Oh _… For Crowley, he wanted to be all of those things, and better. He didn’t understand it, not really, but the feeling was warm behind his ribs, and made his fingers tingle where they rested on Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley tensed, his body on high alert after days in this foul dungeon. Aziraphale smelled of honeysuckle and sunshine-- or perhaps just honey-- and the tang of petrichor that chased away the stench of the cells.

With a shudder, he turned his cheek into Aziraphale’s fingers, and breathed deep.

“I’m fine. Just work as usual.” Crowley lied, and Aziraphale tsk’d his tongue against the back of his teeth disapprovingly.

“I’ve seen your work, my dear. In fact, I’m quite intimately acquainted with the _ work _ you do. And I must say, this doesn’t look a bit like it. I just don’t understand why you haven’t miracled yourself back to safety. Surely that has to be easier than enduring--”

Crowley held up his hand reluctantly, and showed Aziraphale the livid, cross-shaped burns that marched beneath the sleeve of his robe. They were blistered, in shades of blood and bruise purple, and the skin pulled tautly whenever he moved.

“It’s… Not quite that easy. Don’t have the, ah… Energy.” 

Even in the dark, Aziraphale looked a little green. “That’s-- why that’s completely barbaric!” For the first time, Aziraphale looked properly into the cell. Passed Crowley’s shoulder, to the people huddled in the corners, and the small children with old tear tracks running down their hollowed cheeks. This was no place for a child. No place for any human. 

“Not my lot that invented that whole ‘_ Thou shalt not suffer a witch to liv _e,’ business.” Crowley tried to sound flippant, but the tone fell flat, and he was still nuzzling his cheek into the welcome, sweet warmth of Aziraphale’s fingers.

Aziraphale had never been an angry person. But this was no decree of an angry God. 

This was human, and wicked, and the longer he looked, the more Aziraphale wanted to do something. The fix this before the terrible hopelessness in those faces proved true. 

None of it, strictly speaking, was allowed. Angels weren’t supposed to intervene like that. This was a human matter, and God had made it quite abundantly clear that they were to let mankind make, and learn from, their mistakes.

A hot, hard ember sparked to life in his chest, and it burned furiously.

They’d hurt these people. They’d tortured _ his demon _, and Aziraphale wanted to raze the whole prison to the ground. 

They had _ hurt Crowley _. And Aziraphale hadn’t been here to save him.

That was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“Aziraphale, we have to--” In the dark, Crowley could see the bright, righteous light kindling in Aziraphale’s blue eyes, and it was terrifying.

“Hey, you there! You’re not allowed down here!”

The guard’s voice pitched over the sounds of human misery, his uniformed frame flanked by two others. “Stand back from the bars, sir! These women are dangerous. Witches!” He added, and his fingers curled around the solid cross he wore at his throat, “Please, sir. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

Aziraphale rounded on the guards, his shoulders squared. 

And in the dark, Crowley shrank back from the avenging fury on his angel’s face. It was always so easy to forget that Aziraphale had once been charged with protecting Eden, and the humans inside it. 

Now, his unassuming presence radiated with divine light, and Crowley fled to the safe darkness in the furthest corner of the cell, his shawl thrown up around his face.

“Capable of?” Aziraphale intoned flatly, and the guards shrank back, wide eyed. “These people are _ hurt _ . Starving. And you’re afraid of _ them _?” He stalked forward a step, and Aziraphale didn’t need a flaming sword. His holy light flooded the corridor, furious and cold. 

_ “With all your heart you must trust the Lord and not your own judgment. Always let Him lead you, and He will clear the road for you to follow." _ His voice had a ring of authority, suffused with divine command, and Crowley wanted to cover his ears and weep at the sound.

“But sir!” The first guard choked on his words, and trembled in the face of the Word.

In the cell, the condemned crept closer to the bars, their gaunt faces upturned to the light. Crowley wanted to-- with a desperate desire for all that had been stripped away from him. To find salvation in the Word, and the infinite love that had once sheltered him.

But this radiance burned.

“God speaks of love, and you have blood on your hands. Open the cells.”

“Sir, no-!”

“**Open the cells.**”

From beneath the frayed edge of his hood, Crowley watched the guards scatter, their heavy keys rattling as they freed them from their belts. His ears were still ringing and hot when Aziraphale calmed, and his light faded, leaving behind only the sweet softness that Crowley loved.

But when he blinked, the burning after image remained behind his eyelids. 

The metal door creaked when Aziraphale swung it open, unlocked with a quick, impatient miracle. Crowley wanted to be suave, and calm-- to prove to the angel that he’d been entirely in control all along.

But he only managed a step and a half before his knees buckled and he collapsed into the waiting warmth of Aziraphale’s arms.

And Crowley hadn’t intended to kiss him.

Hadn’t planned to cup Aziraphale’s pink cheek in his filthy hand, or to press his angel back against the wall-- stopping only at the last moment, because his angel was precious, and the wall was slick with mold. 

He had imagined kissing Aziraphale a hundred thousand times; but never thought it would be in a dungeon. With a strangled moan, Crowley slanted his mouth over Aziraphale’s, and tasted the sweetness and burning divinity on his lips.

_ You saved me. You worried about me. _

_ You missed me… You missed me… _

Aziraphale clung to Crowley for dear life, waiting for his heart to believe what his arms were telling him. 

_ You’re alive. You’re safe. I wasn’t too late. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The line of Scripture is taken from the book of Proverbs, verses 5 and 6.
> 
> 2\. The Würzburg witch trial took place in Germany in 1626–1631, is one of the biggest mass-trials and mass-executions seen in Europe.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W%C3%BCrzburg_witch_trial


	7. Cnila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are questions of morality and divinity. And Crowley earns himself a few burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I hope you're all having the best week! It's been busy on my end, which is why I'm putting the new chapter up before work, instead of tonight! (Because El is a forgetful soul, and I don't want to leave people hanging!) 💕
> 
> For purposes of this story, I'm using the term 'Nephilim' to describe a person with one human parent, and one demonic or angelic one. Links and more info can be found in the footnotes, of course!

**Cnila; Blood.**   
_ London, England, 1941. _

Crowley had saved his books.

The thought kept running through Aziraphale’s mind, repeating over and over as they drove through the blacked out streets of London. Aziraphale could see the lights of fresh fire in the distance, and for a moment-- as it did every night-- a part of him longed to rush in and save the people that could be trapped beneath the rubble. 

But there were rules. And the days of angelic intervention on such a massive scale were long, long over.

Sometimes he could shift the rules, just a little. A lot of last minute escapes, and people _ certain _ they’d been just about to die… When suddenly? A flash of white blonde hair, and a rather rumpled figure pulling them safe. 

Minor miracles, the sort that Heaven frowned on, in theory, but mostly didn’t bother to investigate. 

Privately, Aziraphale hoped it was a sign that his people didn’t like this war any more than he did. But he wasn’t about to go seek out Gabriel to ask him. Some things really were best left to the optimistic imagination.

But Aziraphale hadn’t saved Mr. Harmony.

Or his associate, Mr. Glozier. 

He hadn’t even saved that nice lady-- Well, no, he supposed, she wasn’t that nice after all. Not with all the associating with Nazis, and holding a gun at him. Really, he prided himself on being such a good judge of character, and then she’d turned out to be… Even angels were allowed a few errors in judgement.

But how embarrassing.

“Angel, you alright over there?” Crowley asked, hands loose on the wheel despite the bombs raining down over the city. Aziraphale caught a flash of gold behind one of his dark lenses.

“Yes yes, quite…” Aziraphale trailed off, and looked down at the bag of books that was resting in his lap. “It’s only… Well… I can’t help but think about them. Not all of them! I’m quite certain that that odious Mr. Glozier was just as awful as he seemed. But the other two… Well, Mr. Harmony, mostly.”

There was a beat of silence that stretched out between them, and lasted half of the way back to Soho. 

When Crowley did speak, it was low and clipped, not annoyed, precisely, but certainly not happy, either. “What about him? I was more occupied with getting you out of there in one piece.”

“Yes, I know dearest, and I’m very grateful for it… But you could sense it on him-- or, I could. I’m not actually certain if demons can--”

If they could feel the spark of something otherworldly in a Nephilim’s aura. It was like an itch at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, prompting him to look closer, because there was something_ wrong _. Something different.

Something not entirely human.

“We can.” Came Crowley’s curt reply, and Aziraphale turned to gaze out the passenger side window. He could see their reflections in the dark glass, his own clear, and Crowley’s blurred at the edges. It felt sadly apt, he thought-- after thousands of years Crowley was still a bit of a mystery to him.

His own feelings had been, until that night. And Aziraphale wasn’t certain why tonight had been any different; why it had been the night to shed the scales from his eyes. He’d saved Crowley before, and Crowley had saved him.

They’d shared meals and stories, and countless bottles of wine. They’d shared an Agreement that had endured the rise and fall of nations. Yet, none of this explained the revelation that had struck Aziraphale when he was standing-- oh, how very ironically-- on the ruins of a holy place.

_ How terribly blind I’ve been. And for so long… I love him. _

_ I love him. _

_ I love him. _

“It’s just not right, you know. All of this killing and bombing. It wasn’t right decades ago, either, of course. We thought the guillotine was a terrible invention-- at least, I did, I suppose you were were impressed by their ingenuity--” Flustered by his own thoughts, Aziraphale regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

Crowley’s mouth pinched, a thin huff of protest escaping. What did Aziraphale think he was? A demon, yes, obviously; but that didn’t mean he was a fan of indiscriminate bloodshed! The comment needled the place behind his ribs, and stung when he breathed too deep.

“-- But this is different” Aziraphale continued, “It’s inhumane. And it’s hard to believe that one of ours-- not that _ those sort _ of children are really ours-- that he would be allying himself with this sort of barbarism.”

“Might not be one of yours, angel. Could be one of ours.” Turning onto a side street, Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel restlessly. “And Nephilim usually have short, screwed up lives. Not like these friends of yours were the first--”

“He was most certainly not my friend!”

“He beat the odds, angel. Lived to middle age, which has to be some kind of a bloody miracle. It was his choice not to run. It’s not like I didn’t give him the chance.” Mostly because Crowley knew Aziraphale would have been upset otherwise, that he didn’t think it helped his argument to mention that.

Besides, the bottoms of his feet were already wretched and burnt, and that was clearly the reward you got for being an altruistic bugger. Blistered feet, and the struggle of keeping his eyes on the road, instead of the angel in the passenger seat.

Crowley almost wished he were human. This felt a lot like penance. 

“Yes but-! Crowley, we have no idea what his life was like. No idea if he… If being _ different _, in such a way-” Aziraphale shied away from the word ‘Nephilim’, thought it sat heavy on his tongue. “Maybe he would have been a better sort of man, if he’d been human. Entirely human, that is, of course.”

“Look, Aziraphale. We can’t change anything now. Doesn’t matter what he _ was _, because he isn’t anymore. He’s on his way Down, with the other two. Nothing you, or I, can do about that. He had Free Will, just like all the rest of them, and he chose to use it to be a bastard. Not my fault.”

Crowley bit his tongue against the insistent, “_ I only care that you’re safe _,'' that was trying very hard to escape.

He had a point, as much as Aziraphale was loathe to admit it. Still, he fidgeted with the handle of his bag, flipping it distractedly between his fingers, troubled by the whole situation. 

“It’s our fault he’s dead.” 

Crowley sounded exasperated when he sighed, and took the next turn just a hair too fast for his passenger’s comfort. “Right. There’s a war on, in case you haven’t noticed. People die. It’s sort of the nature of the beast.”

Aziraphale huffed primly, “Nature of the beast... A little on the nose, coming from a demon, wouldn’t you say?” And then, because there really wasn’t much point in dwelling on it, and the whole discussion was twisting nauseously in his stomach, Aziraphale changed the subject.

Mr. Harmony, with all that remained of his humanity and possible potential, was lying beneath a ton of rock and on his way to Hell. That was the end of it.

“How are your feet? That looked quite painful.” 

“_ Quite _ bloody painful, yeah.”

“Do you want me to…?” 

Crowley’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel, tightening instinctively, “Holy healing, on a demon? You’d probably burn me to cinders.” He hadn’t forgotten the way Aziraphale’s holy radiance had burned, and that hadn’t even been directed at him!

Aziraphale paled, posture unconsciously mirroring Crowley’s, as he gripped the handle of his bag, “No, no, you're quite right! It’s been a long evening, my dear. Clearly I hadn’t thought that through. I could, when we get back to my shop, of course, take a look at them? I do have a little first aid kit, and well… I didn’t think you wanted to spend the rest of the night at A&E. Of course, if you can do it yourself? I hate to be in the way.”

“It’s fine. Take a look, when we get back.” Crowley conceded with a mutter. There wasn’t much he could do for them; holy wounds tended to take their own sweet time about healing. But then, he’d known that when he walked into the church.

The silence lasted the rest of the way to ‘A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books’.

Aziraphale puffed and fretted as they made their way inside, his soft, pink hands occasionally reaching out to Crowley, before thinking better of it and snapping back to his sides. 

Things had been odd after That Night (as Aziraphale had taken to calling it in his head) in Germany. 

There was Crowley’s space. And Aziraphale’s space. And several feet of formal demilitarized zone, filled with landmines. Not to be crossed, not for any reason.

The demon was hip-hopping along, breath escaping through clenched teeth. He didn’t want any help, _ thank you very much _ , he was getting along perfectly fine on his own! “Going to grab that-- _ bloody fucking Chrisssssst! _\-- first aid kit, angel?” Crowley’s curse hissed across his forked tongue with a pained edge, and he set his mouth in a stubborn line, silently challenging Aziraphale to make something of it.

“Yes, I.. Yes. I will. Why don’t you make your way through to the back room, and I’ll be there shortly? But do be careful, my dear! Please, your poor--”

“Angel, if you say _ your poor feet _, one more time…” The implied threat (and it wasn’t a very good one, especially by demonic standards) hung in the air for a moment. It was a matter of pride, after all. Crowley had been the one to save Aziraphale, he certainly wasn’t going to lose all of that noble credit by asking for help now!

Not that Crowley generally cared much for noble. Of course. He was a demon. 

And he’d been a knight in (not so shining, but that was hardly the salient point) armor before. Aziraphale had even seen him in it. It hadn’t seemed to do much for either of them. Clearly, romance novels were a lot of drivel.

Besides, it was hard to feel sexy when you were clanking around in fifty pounds of cold metal.

As soon as Aziraphale was out of sight, and Crowley could hear him rummaging around in what passed for the kitchen, he gripped the edge of a bookshelf for balance and rocked his weight back on his heels. It still hurt like Hell (which, for the record, was quite a lot) but at least it took the pressure off his burned arches and scorched toes.

For a moment, Crowley considered turning into a snake. But holy burns were holy burns, and the last thing he wanted was to be slithering around the shop on a blistered belly.

“Thank you, again.” Aziraphale murmured later, when they were both finally installed on the couch. 

Crowley had sprawled on his stomach, arms crossed under his head and bare feet draped across the angel’s lap. It wasn’t very dignified, but the warmth radiating from Aziraphale was surprisingly lovely. “Don’t.” He muttered under his breath, voice muffled in his bicep, “Don’t want it. Your thankssss.” Crowley clarified, just as Aziraphale dabbed a little burn cream on the sole of his foot, and it came out with a telling hiss.

_ Landmines _.

“Oh! I’m sorry, did that hurt?”

“... No. S’ cold.” 

Crowley refused to twitch. The long, lean muscles of his back were tightly tensed while Aziraphale worked, cleaning the blistered soles and carefully applying a thick layer of sticky greyish ointment. He shifted restlessly, the motion starting at the back of his neck and rolling down his spine-- and Aziraphale paused in his ministrations to watch for a moment.

It really was hypnotic, and Aziraphale was mostly sure that human spines weren’t supposed to move like Crowley’s did. Not that he could see much beneath his jacket, but after a few millennia, he had it on good authority.

Crowley was beautiful in motion.

“Are you certain you’re alright? If I’m hurting you, I can stop. You only need to tell me.” 

Crowley shifted again, almost a squirm, and his foot curled when Aziraphale’s fingers slid, slick with ointment, across the tender seam beneath his toes. “Doesn’t hurt. Just a bit… Nevermind.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, and repeated the gesture-- purely in the name of science, of course-- and was rewarded with another toe clenching jolt. “Crowley, my dearest, are you _ ticklish?” _ He asked incredulously, and Crowley groaned a reply into the crook of his arm.

“Not a word, angel. Not one. more. word!”

“Or you’ll what? Hop out of here with your burned feet, and your shoes over your shoulder? Honestly, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people are ticklish-- I believe it’s the human default, in fact.”

“I’m a _ demon _.”

_ Oh Satan, if only it was the damn tickling! _ Crowley wailed internally. He’d never thought of feet as particularly erogenous before, but this was _ Aziraphale _. It was the tichel and the hair business, and the way he’d looked surrounded by a corona of Heavenly light, and bugger all this, all over again! 

It was Aziraphale’s warm fingers smoothing over Crowley’s arches, and dipping between his toes to make sure every inch of burned flesh was thoroughly coated. 

And he certainly wasn’t hard because of any of that! No. Clearly it was just an inconvenient bodily reaction to relief. As long as he lay very still, he coached himself, he could ignore the way his disobedient cock strained uncomfortably against the couch cushions.

“Yes, I was aware. I’d have to be rather obtuse to have missed that all this time, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale replied primly.

Crowley bit back an unkind comment about the angel’s perception. It was never a good idea to antagonize the medic. Instead, he harrumphed something that wasn’t actually a word, and still managed to sound very put out about the whole business.

“Don’t sulk. It’s unbecoming. And besides, I’m very nearly finished. And you’re not storming off anywhere until I am. After everything you did tonight…” 

“Oh don’t. I said don’t. I wasn’t going to let you get discorporated by a lot of Nazis, angel. You’d have done the same.”

“Well, yes.. I mean, of course I would have! If you were ever in a similar situation. But Crowley, my books, and… Oh, your poor feet… I just have to tell you that I’m very--’

‘Grateful. Yeah.” Crowley squirmed under the thanks, which only reminded him how much he enjoyed Aziraphale’s hands on him, which made him want to wriggle with embarrassment. Which started the whole bloody cycle over again!

Good deeds, Crowley decided (not for the first time, and not for the last) rarely went unpunished. 

In fact, head in his arms and distracted by his own internal monologue, Crowley entirely missed the way Aziraphale was looking down at him. 

The back of the book shop was cast into soft relief, a single lamp on the end table offering most of the light. Crowley’s hair was shorter than Aziraphale had seen it for quite some time, and the downy strands at the nape of his neck looked impossibly soft.

They’d never talked about _ That Night _ in Würzburg. But he didn’t think Crowley had forgotten. Of course, Crowley had simply been caught up in his relief and freedom. 

At least, that’s what Aziraphale had been telling himself. 

_ Oh, _but it would be so easy to lean over and kiss the back of his neck! Aziraphale’s fingers stuttered in their work, and Crowley hissed low under his breath.

“Alright there?” He asked into the couch cushion.

“Yes, yes… Sorry, I’m all done. You really aught to stay off your feet for a while though, Crowley. You could-- if you wanted, of course -- you could stay here. I don’t use the bed, and…”

Crowley didn’t have to look back to know that Aziraphale was blushing. _ Satan _…

The angel’s fingers smoothed over one knobbly ankle bone, and Crowley was sure that ankles weren’t sexy, despite what some previous societies thought! But it was _ Aziraphale _, and his hands were so warm, and Crowley was so impossibly, hatefully in love with him.

“Arghmmm…” He coughed an inarticulate noise, and shook his head, “Got to… Stuff. Busy stuff. Work stuff. You know.”

“Oh…” And did Aziraphale sound disappointed? Crowley wanted to kick himself. First for disappointing him. And second, for being foolish enough to think he had. Aziraphale didn’t feel that way. How many times did he have to repeat that lesson?

“Of course, you’re right. And if either of our sides found out about this? Well, it would be terrible trouble for us both. Really, it’s probably for the best that we don’t test our luck.”

The ‘what if’ was an almost tangible thing in the air.

What if, they hadn’t decided to forget that kiss? What if, they’d been a little braver?

Neither of them had forgotten. But it had been so many years, and how did they break the seal on that long overdue conversation? 

“Right. And we don’t want that.”

“No… No, certainly not…”

_ This _ , they both thought as Crowley left the shop a few minutes later, _ is why it’s a Very Bad Idea to fall in love with your enemy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Nephilim /ˈnɛfɪˌlɪm/ (Hebrew: נְפִילִים, nefilim) were the offspring of the "sons of God" and the "daughters of men" before the Deluge, according to Genesis 6:1-4.
> 
> It's also used to describe the Fallen, giants, the 4 horsemen, the offspring of angel/demon unions, and the offspring of a human with an angel or a demon.
> 
> _When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose...The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown. (NIV)_
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nephilim


	8. Givi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are protesters, and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm just in the process of putting the finishing touches on the last few chapters, and they should be posted in the next few days. Thanks, as always, to everyone that's taken the time to chat with me, your support has been amazing! 💕
> 
> Just quick before we start. This chapter does contain mention of homophobia and the AIDS epidemic. While historically accurate, they do not reflect the views of the writer! (Which should be obvious, but I'm going to err on the side of caution!)

**Givi; Stronger.**  
_ Manhattan, New York, 1988. _

Crowley did not like the eighties. 

The styles were unflattering, and whichever of his lot had created the mullet and _ neon leg warmers_, aught to have been boiled alive in their own bad taste. And that was before he got started on the _ mullets_… And the less said about the deluge of acid washed denim, the better! 

Crowley was fairly sure the eighties had been exclusively inspired by an unholy alliance between Dagon and Michael. People lived to work, work, work, and that left precious little time for any of the more amusing sins. 

No, unless you were an avid fan of Wall Street and greed, the eighties were a good time to stay in bed.

Unless, of course, your angel had been reassigned to New York, and you had nothing _ entirely pressing _ that needed your attention.

And especially when said angel was decidedly technology averse, and floundering embarrassingly under the flood of new bits and bobs that people had created. 

Computers, Crowley thought, were brilliant. And cell phones. Sure, they were a dream toy for most people-- out of reach, but _ some day_? (And Crowley had a knack for knowing which tech was going to catch on) They were going to be big. And he had plans.

Oh yes, computers and cell phones, those were the future.

Fax machines, not so much.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had taken one look at the shiny new Tandy computer on Crowley’s desk, and declared the whole thing modern rubbish with a dismissive wave of his hand.

And that had been the end of that.

Privately, Crowley suspected the angel was out of sorts because he’d had to leave his precious bookshop. But the last time he’d mentioned it to Aziraphale, he’d gotten a sharp look and a very huffy lunchmate.

On that particular afternoon, both angel and demon were enjoying a walk-- a habit that had carried over from one side of the pond to the other. Central Park didn’t have quite the same sort of charm as home, but Crowley didn’t mind the general hurry and fuss of it all. There was always something happening in Central Park; couples getting married, buskers playing music, or school groups scavenging around, under the watchful eyes of their teachers. 

And occasionally not so watchful, but that had more to do with sneaking off for a cigarette, rather than any of Crowley’s mischief.

It was busy, and filled with moderately interesting people. But most importantly, a walk through the park made Aziraphale smile.

“You know, my dear, you’ve never actually told me what assignment has kept you here so long. Not that I’m complaining, of course! Perish the thought. You know I’m fond of your company. But it’s been years, and you’ve barely whispered a peep about it.”

“Ahh… That. Right. It’s secret. Top secret. Not the sort of thing that comes under our Agreement.” In his defence, Crowley was usually a much better liar. But there was something appallingly disarming about the way the afternoon sun slanted through Aziraphale’s blonde curls. He kept them cut short these days, and a little part of Crowley missed the long weight of Aziraphale’s hair running through his fingers.

Not that he’d been allowed to do it often. Just once, in the whole of their acquaintance.

But that didn’t mean Crowley had forgotten the lazy heat of the Jerusalem market, or how dinner with Aziraphale had brightened the Crusades for him.

The benefit of wearing dark, tinted sunglasses was that people never noticed when you were staring. Or, in Crowley’s case, staring off into space and wondering how Aziraphale would react to him combing his fingers through his hair. For science, of course! He was simply, _ academically _ curious if the curls were as soft as he remembered. And if they would still smell of honey and sunshine, and… All that angelic business.

No, he supposed they wouldn’t, Crowley lied to himself. He’d probably smell like every other man in the park that afternoon-- drenched in Drakkar Noir, and desperately trying to pretend like they weren’t about to sweat through their boxy blazer jackets. 

Not that angels sweated.

Or could they? If they were very warm, panting with exertion, would he be able to see sweat beading on Aziraphale’s forehead, and sliding down the back of his neck? And he would taste of salt and divinity, and--

_ Bugger off. None of that daydreaming! _

Those were the sort of thoughts that left a bloody well-meaning demon with much too tight trousers, and all sorts of trouble. 

“Crowley? _ Crowley! _ Honestly, did you hear a word I just said?” Aziraphale’s arms were crossed over his chest. And no-- no, Crowley hadn’t actually been paying attention, which was a very unwise thing to do! 

(Unwise in the sense that it was bad for everyone, especially him. And not in the ‘_ this aught to be a lark! _’ way that demons usually preferred.)

“Hrm… Yes. I was. Just missed that last bit at the end, mind repeating it for me, angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced, even faced with Crowley’s most charmingly innocent smile. Though, in retrospect, that might not have helped much. A demon’s ‘most innocent’ smile didn’t tend to be very believable!

“I _ said _ that it sounds like there’s quite the commotion in that direction,” Aziraphale motioned with one pointed finger, the gesture leading them away from their usual circuit. “And perhaps we really aught to go check. To make sure everyone’s alright.”

Several chains on Crowley’s belt chattered when he turned, one hip swiveling in a way that Aziraphale tried very hard not to notice. 

“If you want.” He drawled after a moment, and hoped it didn’t sound too much like _ If you want, I’ll go. Because you want to. And I want to be with you. _

Considering that Aziraphale simply nodded, and diverted their path towards the commotion, Crowley supposed he’d gotten away with it. As usual. “Wishful thinking…” He muttered to himself, and went to jab one hand into his jeans pocket, before remembering that they were too tight to allow such a thing. 

Damn this trendy denim.

The ache in his chest was just what he deserved. He’d allowed himself to get his hopes up in the 1600s. And again in the forties, only to be systematically disappointed over, and over, and over, for the next forty-seven years. It was a long time to feel rejected, even when you were a demon.

When they turned the corner, both Crowley and Aziraphale wished they were surprised by what they saw. 

A bright collection of picket signs on wooden stakes clustered around one of the entrances to Central Park, waved high above the heads of the angry crowd. They’d seen picketers and protesters before, hundreds of times. Crowley had never forgotten the French and their large, head cutting machine. But they’d always held out a little hope that it would be the last time.

That eventually, the humans they’d learned to love, would learn to-- at the very least-- tolerate one another.

“Homosexuality is an abomination to God.” Aziraphale read quietly, and Crowley’s stomach churned sickly at the sound of the words in his naively uncomprehending voice. 

“Come on, angel. We don’t have to see this. Just a bunch of twats with bristol board and too much time on their hands.” More than anything, Crowley wanted to grab his angel by the arm, propelling them both back the way they’d come. “Humans being ugly in Her name. Not much new there. Seen one, seen’em all. You remember the Crusades.”

In retrospect, he supposed, that might not have been the best example.

But Aziraphale didn’t move, and he certainly didn’t start to walk away. His mouth was pinched thin and white at the edges, compressing his voice when he spoke. “AIDS is God’s cure for… Crowley, how could they believe such a terrible thing? She would never... Well, never _ again_…”

He was floundering, and Crowley had no answers. He didn’t know why God did terrible things, only that she had. She played favourites with humanity, and brought suffering down on Her chosen people. Crowley wasn’t sure if this epidemic was of Her creation, but he couldn’t deny that it was possible.

And neither could Aziraphale.

Once upon a time, Crowley had thought that having answers for Aziraphale-- dangerous answers to damning questions-- was a torment. But having Aziraphale looking up at him, his heart on his sleeve, and not being able to say anything?

That might be worse.

“Look, we can go. Right now. Pretend we didn’t see any of this.” Crowley didn’t really believe it was possible, but it sounded good. Sounded like an excuse, and he’d become very fond of those over the centuries.

For half a second, Crowley thought that Aziraphale was going to agree. 

And then Aziraphale, with his chin tilted up at a stubborn angle, reached over and took his hand. Tightly. Soft, warm fingers threading through Crowley’s with a decisive squeeze that made his heart stutter. 

Crowley wanted to ask what the Hell he was playing at, but his voice had wedged itself under the knot in his throat. And Aziraphale was pulling him forward, his impatient hand dragging Crowley’s arm around his shoulder. They fit well together, always had. Even when Crowley had tried not to think about it, because there were _ rules_, and _ expectations _.

And risk of rejection.

Crowley didn’t know if it was the angry mob getting louder, or just them getting closer, but the taunting cries began to blur together, buzzing in his ears. _ Oh! _ He thought with an electric shock of realization, _ that was what his angel was doing! _The actual Effort, or lack of it, didn’t matter-- humans only saw the shape, and the clothes, and the short hair.

They saw a man with red hair and chains, and a Bad Religion t shirt under his jacket.  
And a man with a waistcoat and tie, and a butter coloured coat draped primly over his arm.

_ They saw two men_.

It was so easy, driven by impulse and proximity. Crowley had been suffocating on desire for decades, no, centuries. For fucking _ millennia. _And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, a ragged sound of defeat on his lips, Crowley reeled the Aziraphale in against his chest and kissed him.

Crowley’s free hand splayed across Aziraphale’s cheek, the pad of his thumb curled beneath his chin to tilt his face up. _ Don’t pull away, please Satan- God-- please fucking _ ** _Someone_**_, don’t let him pull away. _

But he needn’t have worried.

Aziraphale’s breath stuttered in a gasp of surprise, and his hands flew to the artfully frayed lapels of Crowley’s long jacket. He tasted of wine and honey, and when his mouth parted under Crowley’s, the demon couldn’t swallow back a moan of relief, his knees almost buckling.

This was real, and Aziraphale was kissing him back.

The decades seemed to slither away, the crowd muted and unimportant, while Crowley gathered him up against his chest. 

“I... I rather think that’s gotten their attention.” Aziraphale whispered under his breath when he pulled away, and Crowley’s heart began to sink. “Not that I.. I _ mind_, per se, but this is quite a busy street, dearest. And we’re making a bit of a spectacle of ourselves…”

He was blushing. 

And Crowley’s heart brimmed and spilled over, flooded with emotion that a demon should not be able to feel. His touch was soft, almost reverent, when he traced his fingertips across Aziraphale’s burning cheeks, and kiss reddened lips, and _ he’d done this_. Him.

He’d been the cause of the nervous little smile that was playing on Aziraphale’s mouth, like the angel could see the relief that had taken up residence in Crowley’s chest, and was pushing aside all else. “I thought…” He croaked out, and refused to let his angel out of his arms, even when Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder towards the increasingly agitated crowd.

Aziraphale’s expression softened ruefully, and his hands were so steady on Crowley’s back, rubbing slow circles through his coat. Crowley’s head was swimming, struggling to comprehend what his arms were telling him.

His angel was there.

Just there.

His kisses still tingling on Crowley’s lips, and this was no dream he was going to wake up from. No aborted fantasy over too many glasses of wine. 

“No. I haven’t forgotten. It’s… Well, it’s always been a matter of keeping you safe. From my side. And from your’s. If anyone had discovered how I felt, I…” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley leaned down to rest their foreheads together. His breath was audible between them, hitching and too fast, and most of Crowley just wanted to close his eyes and bury his fact in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Pride be damned.

It was the worst place for such a confession. Ridiculous, in fact. It was a busy corner in broad daylight, and instead of music they had the jeering abuse of a protesting crowd. But Crowley didn’t care, not when Aziraphale was telling him all the things he’d been waiting forever to hear.

“I could never have forgiven myself if anything happened to you, because of me. I’m so very sorry, Crowley, I thought … Well, I thought you knew.” Aziraphale fussed quietly, and his weight shifting from one foot to the other. 

So Crowley did the only thing he could think of. The thing that had been rattling around in his brain for what felt like an eternity. Since he’d seem his angel miserably standing on a wall at the beginning of the world, and felt his heart stutter with emotion for the first time since his Fall.

He tightened his arms around Aziraphale, and pressed his angel’s head to his shoulder, long fingers curled against the nape of his neck.

“I do now. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.”

Aziraphale smiled, and for one sweet moment, Crowley wasn’t the one moving too fast. Pushing around the crowd, they were perfectly in sync.

And luckily, neither Heaven nor Hell noticed their photo lost in the middle of that Sunday's New York Times.

Maybe the eighties weren’t so bad, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The signs that Aziraphale reads are taken from actual anti-gay picket signs. I'm choosing not to link to them, because I don't want to bring them any more traffic or attention.
> 
> 2\. Tandy released the 1400 Professional, and the 1000 HX Personal computers in 1987.  
The Motorola DynaTAC 8000X, introduced in 1984, was the world's first truly portable cell phone (The Motorola MicroTAC 9800X would be released in 1989, and you know Crowley bought one of those, too!)


	9. Moz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the end of the world brings revelations, and unexpected joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that popped into my head ages after I'd finished my outline, and was about to start on my epilogue! Muses, right? Gotta love'em! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all having a brilliant day, and I'll hopefully have the last chapter up on Sunday!

**Moz; Joy.  
** _ London, 2007. _

There wasn’t enough wine in the world. Not for this.

“Angel… Explain to me again why you’re the one in the frock, and I’m the one with the…” Crowley’s voice echoed a little in the bowl of his wine glass, before trailing off entirely into a proper gulp. It was poor form to guzzle a 1947 Chateau Lafleur, Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care much. 

Not when he was facing the sartorial horror of _ dungarees _. It was like the bloody eighties all over again! Only these were worn at the hems, and the most miserable shade of brown Crowley had ever seen. He gestured to them with his free hand, and a long suffering noise.

From the other side of the bathroom door, he could hear Aziraphale’s quiet, stifled giggle, and scowled. 

Well, it was more of a pout. But Crowley was mostly sure that it was the thought that counted.

And he _ thought _ that spending the next decade dressed as some heinous manual labourer was a cruelty unfit even for a demon.

How ironic that it was an angel inflicting it on him!

“Because I am, as you quite aptly mentioned, an angel. Nurturing is in my nature.” Came the prim reply, "And of the two of us, you're the only one that knows the first thing about flowers."

"You don't approve of my methods!" 

"I certainly do not! But-" Aziraphale began, but it was swiftly followed by a metallic rattle, and a soft, “Oh, bother it..!” 

Crowley grinned from his place on the couch, his long body sprawled insouciantly across the pillows. “Everything alright in there?” He called back, and tried not to go cross eyed when he reached for the wine bottle. There definitely wasn’t enough left in the bottle, and he absently wondered if his angel had a few more bottles squirrelled away for a rainy day.

The end of the world seemed like a good time to break out the best wine, and the decent china.

“Yes, fine… Quite fine. I just dropped one of my earrings in the--_ oh _, this is so much more difficult than I remembered! It’s been quite a while since I…”

“Do you want some help?” Crowley drawled in his most tempting voice, and was quite proud of himself when his forked tongue behaved, and didn’t hiss the sibilant s-sound. 

It happened sometimes. Occupational hazards of being a snake.

Especially a snake lubricated with most of a bottle of very nice Chateau Mârgaux 1787.

Aziraphale huffed from the bathroom, and Crowley could clearly imagine the pink cheeked look of indignation on his face. “Certainly not! I’m sure I can manage my own accoutrements, thank you very much. This isn’t going to be a repeat of Jerusalem.”

The problem, at least as far as Crowley was concerned, was that it was entirely too much like Jerusalem already!

They’d both been back in London for years, and while things had changed after New York-- and they had, Crowley could grudgingly admit that much-- they had had fallen a bit short of his hopes. 

Or, more accurately, short of his dreams. Which he’d had the better part of six thousand years to imagine. And Crowley knew it wasn’t fair to hold his angel up against his own erotic fantasies. Aziraphale had no idea the lascivious and naughty things a demon could dream up, or how often he’d played the lusted-over central figure.

Very much lusted over, in fact. 

To the point of distraction when they were out to dinner, and Crowley found himself envious of the spoons that Aziraphale used, and the way his pink tongue would flick against the metal to catch the last smears of whatever delicacy he’d been savouring.

On those nights (which were more common than he wanted to admit, even to himself) Crowley felt like he’d been poured into his mortal body for the first time, all over again. Obsessed with his new form, and the things he could make it feel. Hands sliding down beneath the sheets when he was supposed to be sleeping-- and Crowley loved his sleep-- with the image of his sweet, incredible, _ fucking pure as the driven snow, damnit _, angel behind his eyelids.

He was a demon, for pity’s sake! He could be out seducing and tempting, filling his bed with a new person every night, if he wanted.

Only he didn’t. Because nobody else was Aziraphale.

And it all seemed rather pointless without him.

Crowley heaved a sigh into his glass, and swished the dregs around resignedly. He was never going to push, and Aziraphale was an angel. 

And angel’s didn’t do that sort of thing. 

So he would never ask. 

And both of them would continue onto the end of the world (which was apparently coming much faster than Crowley wanted,) with the occasional chaste kiss.

It was probably, supplied his drunken lack of optimism, going to be the death of him. What a cheery thought.

“Alright, I’m... I’m coming out. But don’t laugh at me! It’s been ages since I went anywhere as a woman, and these modern styles are so different.” Aziraphale fussed on the other side of the door, pulling the sleeves of his cardigan straight, and smoothing invisible creases from his skirt.

“Just come on, angel. I’m not going to laugh.” All the same, Crowley crossed his fingers against the side of his wine glass.

And nearly choked when his angel nervously slid back into the room.

“Satan…” Crowley exhaled in a rush, his lanky frame wobbling on the couch precariously for a moment when he sat up much too fast. The world spun for a second, but Crowley only had eyes for Aziraphale, staring at the angel over the top of his sunglasses. “You look…” He trailed off, and shook his head in what felt like disbelief.

Which made the world spin uncomfortably back the other way. This was why you didn’t guzzle very good wine.

“Is it terrible? I don’t want to look so very… All of the magazines, they look so… Trendy.” Aziraphale fussed, and looked down at his clothes, and the body under them, self consciously. “And that’s… Well… That’s not _ me _. And I’m hardly trying to win a beauty contest, am I? I’m just going to be a nanny, and--”

“Angel.” Crowley cut him off, and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. He always thought Aziraphale was beautiful, that had been the start of all his troubles. He was soft, with curves that Crowley’s fingers itched to touch, to rest on. To slot his hand into Aziraphale’s hip when they walked; and to thread his fingers over the dimples at the base of his spine when he hugged him goodnight.

Aziraphale had curls that had been distracting Crowley for over eight hundred years! That he was occasionally allowed to stroke when they were watching movies, and Aziraphale would rest his head against Crowley’s shoulder. 

Which were currently worn long, and loose around his shoulders in a soft, blonde cloud, and Crowley wanted nothing more in the world than to bury his face in the sweet smelling mass.

It was pathetic. _ He _ was pathetic. 

And he didn’t even care anymore.

“You look…” Crowley stumbled over one discarded snake skin boot when he pushed himself up from the couch, still shaking his head. Aziraphale’s clothes weren’t so different from his usual style, but now his waistcoat skimmed a feminine waist and generous hips, and there were curves... _ Oh Satan, those curves _... That he certainly hadn’t had before.

The Dowlings’ would never hire a male nanny, and Crowley knew this was a disguise. A re-orienteering of his angel’s usual frame. But it was still Aziraphale, and he was so very, stupidly, hopelessly in love with that angel.

“You’re going to have to be the gardner.” He finally muttered, and cupped Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks in his palms. Crowley’s glasses had slid low on his nose, and with a sheepish quirk of his mouth, Aziraphale reached up to take them off. 

“And why is that, my dearest?” Aziraphale asked, folding the glasses and setting them to the side. 

Crowley wanted to believe that he was lying-- no-- _ teasing-- _ but this was Aziraphale, and the angel couldn’t lie to save his life! It was maddening, those blue eyes gazing up at him, and doing uncomfortable things in Crowley’s chest that should really not be allowed.

Was he going to need to give the angel a handwritten note? Signed by six Dukes of Hell, and an equal number of very confused Archangels?! _ You are cordially invited to the bed of Anthony J. Crowley, because he has been perilously in love with you for quite literally ever. _

Maybe not.

Instead he said, “Because if you go around looking like this, we’re not going to get anything done.” 

“You like it, then?” Aziraphale shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and slowly draped his free arm loosely about Crowley’s neck. It was as much of an invitation as Aziraphale could manage without getting flustered. 

He should know, he’d been trying to offer it for almost twenty years!

And he didn’t want to push! But Aziraphale knew that Crowley didn’t … That he _ wasn’t _ … Attracted to him. _ Like that _.

And it was alright, he’d told himself. He was very happy with things they way they were!

“I like _ you _, angel. Whatever you look like. Could be wrapped in a burlap sack, or have nine arms and teeth like fucking Dagon, and I’d still like you. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Crowley forced a laugh that was mostly a huff of exhaled breath, “End of the world, and you’re the only person I want to spend it with.”

“Avert it with, you mean. I… I have no intention of losing this world, Crowley. Not with you in it. And certainly not after I’ve worked so hard to keep you around!”

Crowley’s thumb smoothed over Aziraphale’s warm, pink stained cheek, and leaned forward to brush a kiss between his furrowed eyebrows. “You’ve got me. I’m not going anywhere. Never really wanted to in the first place.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened, his besotted heart on his sleeve. “Then I rather think you could kiss me properly. If you want to, I --”

“If _ I _ want to?!” Before Aziraphale could reply, and courage bolstered with the better part of a bottle of wine, Crowley cut himself off. Heart in his throat, he darted down and kissed Aziraphale like he’d been craving. 

It was slow and deep, a searching kiss that turned into three, and five, and he lost count because who gave a damn about counting when Aziraphale was soft and yielding, and welcoming in his arms? When he was pressing forward on his toes to wrap his arms around Crowley’s chest, and chasing his lips when they pulled too far away.

It was a kiss that lasted to the end of the couch, and broke only when they stumbled back onto it, falling into a clumsy tangle of arms and legs and twisted clothing. 

Aziraphale laughed against his mouth, and Crowley felt something in his chest break loose. Something wonderful and light, fizzing through his blood, and _ hope _\-- that was the feeling. It was hope. A stubborn spark, because Aziraphale made him brave. 

“Oh, we’re very, very foolish, aren’t we?” His angel asked into the warm space between them, all shared breath and delight. 

“Seems like it. I’d like to know where a good, virginal, purity-and-light angel like you managed to kiss like that.” Crowley gently nipped at Aziraphale’s lower lip, a little incredulous when he looked down at the pliant, smiling angel below him.

“Well, dearest, I’m not the one who said I was any of those things! I rather thought you weren’t interested in… I mean, of course, you’re a demon, and that’s supposed to come with the job description. But work is hardly the same as actually--”

“I want you.” Crowley stated bluntly, picking out the syllables with such clarity that Aziraphale couldn’t miss them. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you standing on that wall, looking worried about the humans. And you talked to me. Like I mattered. I loved you that day, and I just never managed to stop. Never wanted to. Even when I was trying my damnedest to forget about you, because you deserved better.”

Aziraphale blinked away the tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes, and beaded in his lashes. And this time, he was the one to pull Crowley down, his fingers splayed across the demon’s cheeks like he was something unbearably precious. “You did matter. You still do. You always will. I’m so very sorry it took me such a long time to catch up, but I’m here now. And you know I love you.”

He loved him. 

And Crowley didn’t think he would ever grow tired of hearing it.

“I’m still being the nanny.” He muttered, and leaned in to rest his head on Aziraphale’s chest, letting the angel comb his fingers through his shaggy hair. His chest burned with emotion, overflowing and breaking through the dams he’d been building since his Fall. 

They crumbled inside his chest, with angel shaped doors and windows, and the rubble of his pride. Spaces just for Aziraphale. Just for his angel. And only him.

Aziraphale let him change the subject, and laughed quietly into Crowley’s red hair, “Of course. If you like.”

“And you’re going to make yourself really bloody unappealing. I bet the parents don’t want their nanny dragging the gardener off to the woodshed to-”

“Crowley!”

“You love it.”

Aziraphale scoffed, but didn’t make any effort to deny it, “Be still, you wily old serpent. Or else I’m going to get up.”

Crowley wriggled a little, and made a show of pillowing his head more comfortably on Aziraphale’s bosom, a cheeky smile half hidden by the angel’s buttery yellow cardigan. “Better?” He teased.

And Aziraphale sighed adoringly, “With you? Always.”

This time, it was Crowley’s turn to blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to say there were no notes for this chapter, but it seems bare without them! So,
> 
> 1\. Château Margaux 1787 is a red wine that holds the record as the most expensive bottle of wine ever broken, insured at $225,000.  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ch%C3%A2teau_Margaux
> 
> Crowley strikes me as someone that prefers red wine to white... What do you think?


	10. Vaoan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an angel, and a demon. And an ending that's more of a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end! Thank you so much to everyone that's made it this far!
> 
> I won't ramble at you, lets just get on to the chapter!

**Vaoan; Truth.**   
_ London, England, present day. _

“Crowley, tell me you didn’t go down to the kitchen like that!”

“You have a better idea, angel? I wasn’t going to get all togged up just to make a cup of tea.”

“Yes, but- but you have to walk right passed the shop windows to get to the kitchen! Really now, what would people say?”

“I don’t know… Oh, look, Mr. Fell has a pretty new boy toy?” Crowley smirked, and enjoyed the hot blush on his angel’s face.

The world was safe. At least, it was safe from the supernatural forces that had tried to bring about the Apocalypse. Of course there were still earthquakes and thieves, hurricanes and terrible politicians. But the end of the world-- the proper, absolute, final battle between the forces of Heaven and Hell? 

That had been thankfully averted.

And miraculously, Aziraphale and Crowley were both still alive to see it.

It was the end of the first whole day after the End That Wasn’t, and the sun was sinking low over the city. The last watercolour streaks of blue and purple smudged the sky, and Aziraphale could see them through his bedroom window. It was the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen, mainly because he hadn’t been entirely sure that he would.

The odds have been against them from the start. And what could one angel, and one demon, and one scared child really hope to accomplish against something as impossibly catastrophic as the Ineffable Plan? 

Only, they were here.

All of them.

Adam was safe, even if he was going to be grounded for the foreseeable future. Poor dear, but he and Crowley had both promised to keep in touch. After all, that was quite the secret for one small child to carry alone.

Over the edge, beyond the end of the world, and Crowley was standing in his bedroom door. Wearing only a pair of rather brief black briefs. And holding and steaming cup of tea in either hand. 

It wasn’t a bad way to start a new world, Aziraphale decided happily.

“They couldn’t see anything through the maze of shelves you’ve got in there. Nobody saw me, Aziraphale. Your reputation remains unsullied.” Crowley teased, and kicked Aziraphale’s very old tartan robe out of his way. 

It, along with a pair of black trousers, a rather frayed waistcoat, and some other odds and ends… socks and shorts, and a hopelessly tangled bow tie… Scattered the floor from the door to the foot of the bed.

“That’s beside the point, you utter fiend! What if someone  _ had _ ?” 

From anyone else, the comment would have cut. But from Aziraphale-- especially an Aziraphale with mussed curls and a livid love bite at the base of his throat, still red and hot, and reminding Crowley just where his mouth had been an hour before. And especially an Azirphale who was gazing up at him with that look of impossibly fond exasperation-- Crowley only laughed. 

Aziraphale huffed a rueful sigh, and reached up to retrieve his cup, turning the handle meticulously into his palm and splaying his soft fingers gratefully across the hot ceramic. Truthfully, Crowley could have seduced him against the cash register, or swanned nude around the shop during open hours, and Aziraphale wouldn’t really have minded.

It was just one of those facts that came hand-in-hand with being utterly besotted.

“Forgive me?”

“Yes, well, I suppose I must, musn’t I? You’re a terrible imp, and I’d miss it dreadfully if you ever stopped.” 

Crowley’s heart stuttered over a beat, as it always did when Aziraphale said things like that. Words were difficult for him, and humans had never been able to create ones to properly explain how he felt.

He’d had a language, once upon a time. A living, growing thing, with words that still flickered occasionally at the back of his mind. Words he couldn’t say, because they were holy, and would burn his tongue.

So instead, Crowley set his own cup on the bedside table, and reached down to tug some of the tangled blankets into a bit more order. (see: Away from the angel, who had wrapped all of them around himself) One of Aziraphale’s books was resting on the coverlet, and he moved that aside, too. “Right. Evil, scary demon. Even if I’m not on the payroll anymore. Best you remember it.” 

Crowley’s crooked grin only made Aziraphale laugh. 

“What is it your lot say when they meet up?” Aziraphale asked curiously, and lifted half the blanket pooled around his bare waist unselfconsciously, making a space for Crowley beside him. It was blue and cream, with a faded pattern in sand and brown, and it was one of the softest things either of them had had the pleasure of touching.

“Hm?” Crowley hummed distractedly and glanced up at Aziraphale’s face, instead of the very tempting curve at his angel’s waist.

“Oh yes! I remember… ‘Let us all recount the deeds of the day.’ Would you say you’ve been exceptionally wicked today, my dearest?” Aziraphale teased, adoring and comfortable in the bed that would become theirs. Together.

Finally.

Crowley wasn’t sure where Aziraphale had even picked up that little tidbit of knowledge-- but his angel always had been smarter than anyone else gave him credit for. Even smarter than Crowley had occasionally thought, and that was saying something! 

“Yeah…” Crowley drawled, and tipped down the front of his dark sunglasses to eye Aziraphale over the lenses.

Aziraphale simply reached up with his free hand to slide them off Crowley’s nose entirely, and set the frames on his own bedside table. “Have you, now? I’d be very curious what deeds you were up to.”

“I… Ah…” Crowley faltered for a moment, his gaze flicking over to his glasses. There was something intimate about that, familiar, and it took him a few seconds to regain his smirking equilibrium. “I used the words of a witch to pull the wool over Heaven’s eyes. I was indecent-- though I’ve no bloody clue why human bodies were ever supposed to be sinful in the first place. Oh yes..” The demon smirked, and stretched out along the mattress, his expression looking thoroughly pleased with himself. 

“And I seduced an angel. Twice. And after he’s had a bit of a rest, and a cuppa, I plan to do it again.”

Aziraphale bit his tongue to stifle a laugh, and feigned a disapproving nod, “How very naughty you’ve been. Those are certainly grievous sins.”

“Yeah… Not much of a sin though, if he’s begging for it.”

“Begging? Oh Crowley, really now…” Aziraphale scoffed with exasperated fondness, and rested his fair head on his demon’s shoulder. It was the most token of protests, and even that was softened by the way he curled in close. “ _ Requesting _ , perhaps. Maybe quite… well,  _ emphatically _ , but…”

Crowley smirked, and dipped down to bury a kiss in Aziraphale’s sweet smelling curls, “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

“I, well... Of course, practice does make perfect. And hard work is supposed to be very good for the soul.”

“Mmhmm… I’ll remember that next time you tell me you have to inventory the shop. Need to get my  _ practice _ in.”

The sound of Aziraphale’s laughter, quiet and half buried against his chest, made Crowley’s heart flip. It wasn’t a very demonic reaction, but his angel tended to have that effect on him. 

Demons weren’t supposed to love, it was impossible.

As impossible as an angel in the throes of lust. 

But Crowley had seen both, felt both, and though he wasn’t sure how it had happened (maybe Beelzebub had been right, and they’d both gone a little native) he didn’t particularly care, either. They done their waiting, thousands of years of misunderstandings and second guessing.

Now he had Aziraphale in his arms, right where his angel was always meant to be, and Crowley had no intention of letting him go.

Through the window, he could see the sky darkening over the city, the last vivid colours turning to black. “Do you remember...” Crowley asked, his voice lowered an octave, and he tried to chase away the unexpected frog in his throat with a drink of tea. “Before. The stars. Before there were stars.”

Aziraphale blinked in surprise, and looked up at Crowley, and passed his shoulder to the window. The thin curtains had drifted aside in the fresh evening breeze, and offered him a view of limited skyline, and the black vault above. “Before the stars.” He repeated softly, and after a pause that was just long enough make Crowley start to squirm, he nodded. “I do. Yes. It was… Dark.”

Crowley wanted to tease Aziraphale for the obvious statement, but his chest felt too tight to force the sound, “Yeah... It was.”

“Not dark in the way humans see it, of course. But that very…  _ singular _ darkness. That void that had simply gone on, and on-- not that I was supposed to be watching the sky, of course!” Aziraphale looked down at his half full teacup, and pressed closer to Crowley’s side. 

His demon tightened his arm around his shoulders securely-- protectively, even-- and it comforted them both.

“No, I was… I was supposed to be watching the wall. My part of the wall, you remember.”

As if Crowley could forget. He simply nodded though, in confirmation.

“I don’t think I was very good at my job, I’m afraid. We’d been told to guard Eden, and the humans from the Adversary. But at the time, well… This is going to sound terribly naive, but… It never occurred to me that your lot--”

“Former lot.” Crowley corrected, and pressed Aziraphale’s bicep with a long finger.

“Oh! Yes, quite.” Aziraphale hummed and cracked a smile before he continued, “It never occurred to me that your former lot were the enemy. You’d been like us, once. And even though I knew it would never be the same again, it was impossible to imagine my brothers and sisters as enemies. We’d been told what you’d done, all of you. But it was… Well, it seemed impossible. You were my family, not demons _ . _ ”

And then he’d met Crowley, whose hands had been sticky with apple juice, instead of stained with blood, and he’d known there was something different about him. Something indefinable and precious, though it would be years before he appreciated it fully.

“Didn’t want to be. Most of us.” Crowley muttered, and set down his cup before his unsteady hand could slosh the tea all over the bed. “I had questions. Too many… Just too damn many questions, and She wasn’t interested in giving answers. So I looked and…” He cleared his throat, but the tight knot remained. “I don’t know which question it was. That was too many. Tipped the scale. Never found out. One minute I was--”

Crowley’s eyes dropped closed for a moment, and his fingers twitched reflexively. He could still remember the bright, burning heat of his stars in his hands, and the day they had turned to ash and trickled through his fingers. Black and burnt, and then he’d been Falling, too.

“Aoiveae.” Aziraphale’s voice was scarcely audible over the rush of blood in Crowley’s ears. He shaped the word tenderly, rolling the soft syllables over his lips. Something precious, something he’d carried with him through all the ages of the world.

His word. His beautiful word.

Crowley’s heart thudded with a harsh, bruising beat against his ribs. He waited, breath held, for the agony that didn’t come. Demons were not made to endure the words of Angels. 

“Yes.” He nodded, but his voice sounded clipped and strangled, “That word. I… Remember. When it came into being. I was working, and it was…”

Aziraphale shivered unexpectedly, feeling the cold fingers of realization at the back of his neck, “Working, my dearest? I’ve always wondered, but it seemed cruel to ask, since--”

“Stars.” Crowley shifted in his side of the bed, and stared out the window. It was easier than facing the look on Aziraphale’s face. He couldn’t bear the softness, or the quiet hurt-- for him, for all he’d lost, and all the broken, unfinished edges of him.

He loved him too much to see the pity there. 

Crowley had been without the grace of God for millennia. Before the garden, and the humans’ idea of recorded history. 

He’d been to Heaven that very afternoon, and seen the cold, sterile place it had become. No, the Heaven that Crowley remembered had been gone for a very long time.

“Your stars?” Aziraphale exclaimed instead, and Crowley looked down at him with an eyebrow cocked sharply.

“Yeah?”

There was no pity in Aziraphale’s face, just a sort of wide eyed surprise that Crowley found both confusing, and desperately endearing. 

“But that was my word! Aoiveae.” Aziraphale explained, and his voice began to quicken with every syllable. “I wasn’t meant to, of course! Other angels were supposed to do the namings. But they were so beautiful from my wall, and seeing them was the most wonderful part of my day. And I’d thought… Oh, it must sound so silly, but--”

“Say it.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks coloured, and he tilted his face up to gaze at Crowley, searching his expression. 

Crowley turned to stare down at him in wary shock. 

“Every night I would lie on my wall, and look up at those... At  _ your _ stars. And I’d see the work that had been done during the day, when it was too bright for me to see them. It was the best part of my day. And I loved them so very much, my dearest. So one night I decided to give them a name.”

“Aoiveae.” Crowley whispered before he could stop himself, and flinched in preparation for the agony. He was amazed he could speak the word at all; the language of Heaven was a sacred thing, and the memory of those words had been lost when he’d be driven from grace.

But that word, those few syllables, had always remained. Soft and bright in his mind, even though the details of it were blurred and faded.

The pain didn’t come. 

He waited to burn, but there was only Aziraphale in his arms, blonde curls tickling under Crowley’s nose when he buried his face in his angel’s hair. And if Aziraphale felt the few tears that slid down Crowley’s cheeks, he didn’t comment.

Aziraphale was less surprised. The word had been of his own making, and he wished only for Crowley to be happy, and safe, and well. Something of that, he thought, had been woven into the word.

Crowley had created stars that had given people hope. And stars that had guided them home. 

Now, he realized, they’d done the same for him. 

Whether it was London, or Atlantis, or the edge of the galaxy. Home was wherever Aziraphale was. 

“I love you.” Crowley breathed into his hair, and gathered Aziraphale in hard against his heart.

“And I, you.”

“Still? Not… Sick of me, yet?” Crowley tried to tease, but it sounded small and vulnerable. 

Aziraphale smiled, and reached up to cup Crowley’s cheek in his warm palm, “I’ve waited a very long time to find where I belonged. Only to realize that it was here, with you, all along. And I will love you until the very last star turns black. And on that day? We’ll light new stars, together. I don’t want a world without you in it, Crowley. That would be no world for me.”

So, in their bedroom above a bookshop in Soho, an angel and a demon drank tea and spoke of the future. Of leaving the city, or finding somewhere new. 

Of what it meant to be on their side, and only their side. 

Of the little boy they’d raised, and how they both still worried about him. And the boy who had turned out to be the Antichrist, and had invited them to his birthday.

Of rubber ducks in Hell, and how much Heaven had changed.

Angels do not have a word for love. It was both fact and mystery, and not something to be confined by sound alone. But there was love in every word of their plans.

Their future.

Together.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💕


End file.
